I groan and close my eyes. Tucker is all of those things, and so much more. Right now I feel like I’m that empty beer can under the bleachers.
I hear Tucker’s name called. There are hoots and hollers from people in the stands. Then he and Midas are out of the gate chasing down a black-and-white calf. Tucker has a long loop of rope in his hand, swinging it almost gently around his head, one, two, three times, then lets it fly. It catches the calf perfectly around the neck. Tucker slides down from Midas’s back, runs to the calf’s side, holding another piece of rope between his teeth, flips the calf expertly into the dirt, and ties his legs. The whole thing takes all of two minutes, maybe less. And he’s done. He waves at the crowd.
My eyes fill. It seems like I’m crying all the time these days, but I can’t help it. He’s so beautiful, even dusty and dirty and sweating with effort, he’s the most beautiful boy in the world.
Christian might be right. We belong together. That’s hard to deny. He’s my purpose, at least a big part of it.
But Tucker is my choice. I love him. That isn’t going to go away.
I wanted an answer, and that’s as close to one as I’m going to get. Now I should slip out of here before he spots me and sees the guilt that has to be plain as day all over my face.
The crowd around me cheers again as the time is announced. He’s done well. Even with all the other emotional garbage piling up on top of me, I’m proud of him.
I stand and edge my way over to the aisle, then move quickly down the stairs. Almost out. But then someone whoops loudly at Tucker from the front row of the stands. A female someone. And something about the whole thing makes me pause.
It only takes me a second to locate her: a girl wearing formal western wear, a white button-up shirt with stars on the shoulders, white jeans with fringe, white boots. A cascade of long red hair flows in perfect curls down her back. She’s looking at Tucker with this kind of light in her eyes that instantly twists me up inside.
I feel like I should know her. There’s something familiar—she must go to our school, of course—and then it hits me. This is Allison Lowell. She’s one of the girls Tucker took to prom last year. She was sitting right next to me when he drove us all home that night, a petite redhead in a deep navy dress.
Don’t do it, Clara, I tell myself. Don’t read her.
But I do. I lower the walls, just a smidge, and I reach for her with my mind. I feel what she feels. And I don’t like it.
Because she thinks he’s beautiful, too. He makes her palms get sweaty and her voice get squeaky in this mortifying way. But he’s always nice to her. He’s really nice, which is so rare in a guy so gorgeous, she knows. He doesn’t even seem to know how hot he is. She remembers dancing with him, his rough and calloused palm as he held one of her hands while they danced a two-step, the other on her waist. She thought she would burst. His eyes blue as cornflowers. Writing his name in the margins of her notes in Spanish class. She has a million things she wants to say to him.
Me gustas. I like you.
Still, she knows it’s fantasy. He’s never looked at her. He doesn’t even really see her standing here now. If only he could see her, and the longing that shoots through her in this moment causes me physical pain. If he would only open his eyes.
“You showed them, Tuck!” she cries, cheering for him.
I back away from her, reeling, dizzy. There were all these jokes between him and me, about little Miss Allison Lowell. And all this time she’s been totally crushing on him.
I take a good long look at her. The first thing that strikes me is the red hair, a natural, shiny copper, not like the orange nightmare mine was last year, but the color of a new penny. She’s willow thin, but I get a sense of muscle about her, too, regular exercise, fresh air. She’s stronger than she looks. Pale, milky skin smattered with freckles, but it suits her. Coral lips. Expressive brown eyes.
She’s pretty.
And she does rodeo. And she’s from around here, maybe wants to stay. She’s a regular girl. A redhead. He likes redheads. And she likes him.
If I had never shown up at school last winter, maybe he would have seen her in her prom dress that night. They might have talked. He might have even ended up calling her Carrots.
She’s like the healthy alternative to me.
I can’t breathe. I head for the exit. Now more confused than ever.
But as I push through the crowd, I turn one last time to look for Tucker, who’s back on Midas now, and I can barely make out his head, his hat, his serious eyes as he pivots the horse back toward the gate, before I turn to go.
That night I curl up next to Mom in her bed and we watch home videos together. Dad comes in every now and then, watches with us with this half-sad expression, seeing the evidence of all he missed. Then he goes out. I never know where he goes when he’s not in the house. He’s just gone.
This one we’re watching now is of the beach. I’m around fourteen. It must have been right before Mom took me out to Buzzards Roost, told me about the angels. I am your typical girl here, walking along the sand, checking out the hot surfers. It’s kind of embarrassing how obvious I am, when the cute guys come along. I try to act all poised, toss my head to show off my hair, move with a dancer’s grace along the shore. I want them to notice me. But when it’s just us, just Mom and Jeffrey and me, I’m a total kid. I splash in the water, run around in the sand with Jeffrey, build sand castles and destroy them. At one point I grab the camera away from Mom to film her. She’s wearing a flowy white cover-up over her bathing suit, a large straw hat, big sunglasses. She looks so vital, so healthy. She joins in with our play, laughs, darts along the shore being chased by the waves. It’s funny how when people change, you forget the way they used to be. I’d forgotten how beautiful she was, even though she’s still beautiful. It’s not the same. There was an energy about her then, an unconquerable spirit, a light in her that never went out.
Right now she’s quiet. I think she might be asleep, but then she says, “That was my happiest time, right then.”
“Even without Dad?” I ask.
“Yes. You two made me so happy.”
I offer her my bag of popcorn, but she shakes her head. She’s completely stopped eating now. Carolyn can only get her to take sips of water, maybe a bite or two of chocolate pudding on good days. It bothers me, because living people have to eat. It means she’s not really living anymore.
“I think maybe that was my happiest time, too,” I say, watching myself smile up into the camera.
Before visions. Before purpose. Before fires. Before all these choices I’m not ready to make.
“No,” Mom says. “Your happiest times are still to come.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve seen it.”
I sit up to look at her. “What do you mean?”
“All my life, I’ve seen glimpses of what’s to come, mostly for myself, like the visions, but sometimes for others as well. I’ve seen your future, or variations of it, anyway.”
“And what do you see?” I ask eagerly.
She smiles. “You go to Stanford.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“You like it there.”
“So Stanford equals happiness? Great then, I guess I’m all set. Can you tell me the color scheme for my dorm room, because I’m trying to decide between a lavender theme or royal blue.” Yes, I’m being sarcastic, and maybe I shouldn’t, when it seems like she’s trying to tell me something important. But the truth is, I can’t imagine real happiness. Not without her.
“Oh, sweetie.” She sighs. “Do me a favor,” she says. “Look in the top dresser drawer. In the back.”
I find a dusty red velvet box hidden behind her socks. I open it. Nestled inside is a silver charm bracelet, old and a little tarnished. I hold it up.
“What is this?” I’ve never seen her wear it before.
“It’s for you to wear to the cemetery.”
I look at the cha
rms, which seem ordinary enough. A heart. A horse. A couple of what I think must be fake gems. A fish.
“It was mine, a long time ago,” she says. “And now it’s yours.”
I swallow. “Aren’t you going to tell me that you’ll always be with me? Isn’t that what people say? You’ll be in my heart, something like that?”
“You are part of me,” she replies. “And I am part of you. So yes, I will be with you.”
“But not a real, conversational part, right?”
She lays her hand on mine. It feels so light, lighter than a hand should be, her skin like the softest white paper. Like she could blow away on the wind.
“You and I have a connection that nothing, not on heaven or earth, or even hell, could ever break. If you want to talk to me, talk to me. I’ll hear you. I might not be able to answer, at least not in a timely manner. . . .”
“Because a day is a thousand years . . .”
She smirks. “Of course. But I will hear you. I will be sending my love to you every moment.”
“How?” I’m unable to push back the tears in my voice.
“In the glory,” she answers. “That’s where we’ll find each other. In the light.”
I’m crying again and she wraps her arm around me, kisses the top of my head. “My dear sweet girl. You take on so much. You feel things so deeply. But you will be happy, my darling. You will shine.”
I nod, wiping at my eyes. I believe her. Then I go ahead and say the next thing that pops into my head.
“Mom, are you ever going to tell me about your purpose?”
She pulls back, looks at me thoughtfully. “My purpose is you.”
That night she tells me another story, a different version of the one she told Jeffrey and me earlier, about the day of the earthquake. What she didn’t mention before.
That when she saw Dad, when he lifted her out of the rubble that had been her bedroom, when he carried her off to heaven, she recognized him.
“I’d been dreaming about him,” she says.
“What was the dream about?” I’m sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed so I can face her as she talks.
“A kiss,” she confesses.
“A kiss?” I get a twinge of guilt, just hearing the word. Remembering Christian’s lips on mine.
“Yes. In the dream, I kissed him. He was standing on a beach.” Her eyes flick up to the television, the glittering, rolling water. “And I walked up, took his face in my hands, and kissed him. Not a word passed between us. Only a kiss.”
“Whoa,” I breathe. So romantic. “So when you saw him after the earthquake, you recognized him as the guy you kissed.”
“Yes.”
“So what did you do?”
She laughs lightly, almost a giggle. “I immediately developed a huge crush on him. I was sixteen, after all, and he was . . .”
“Hotness personified,” I finish for her, a bit sheepishly, since this is my dad we’re talking about here.
“He was one gorgeous specimen, yes he was.”
“And what happened?”
“He stayed with us for three days, after the earthquake, in Golden Gate Park, and on the last night, I tried to seduce him.”
“And . . .”
“He wouldn’t have it. He rejected me, rather rudely, I thought. And the next morning he was gone. I didn’t see him again for three years.”
“Oh, Mom . . .”
“Don’t feel too sorry for me,” she reminds me with a small smile. “It worked out, in the end. I landed him.”
“But what happened when you saw him again? I bet it was awkward.”
“Oh, by then I’d decided I didn’t want him.”
My mouth drops open. “You didn’t want him? Why not?”
“For a lot of reasons. By then I knew what he was. I knew that he would want to marry me, and even if I didn’t know all that would entail, I knew it would never be a traditional marriage. I didn’t think I wanted to be married. I didn’t want my life to be decided for me. That’s probably the biggest reason of all. So when I saw him again, I let him know in very clear terms that I wasn’t interested.”
“How’d he take that?” I can’t imagine anyone refusing Dad anything.
“He laughed at me. Which didn’t help matters much. But he would not go away. I would feel his presence near me often, although sometimes years would pass where he never showed himself.”
“But what about your vision?”
“I kept having it.”
“And you just ignored your purpose?”
“Oh no,” she says gravely. “I did more than ignore it. I fought it. I resisted with every bit of strength I had in me. I wasn’t about to let anyone control my life.”
“For how long?” I ask breathlessly.
“Oh, sixty years, give or take.”
“Sixty years.” There I go, Clara the parrot. I belong on a pirate’s shoulder. “So that’s why you didn’t tell me. Aside from the fact that you were trying to hide that Dad’s an Intangere. If you’d told me that you fought your purpose, instead of the way I’d always assumed it went down, maybe I would have fought mine too.”
“Exactly,” she says. “Except you ended up fighting yours anyway. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“And they let you do that? Heaven, I mean.”
“They let me do that. I had free will, you see, and, boy, did I ever use it.”
“What did you do?”
She sighs. Something clouds her eyes. I feel a hint of regret. Obviously this part of her life was not her favorite time.
“I made mistakes,” she confesses. “One after another after another. I brought a whole world of hurt down on myself. I fumbled through my life. Hurt people, even people I loved. Became an expert at lying to myself. I suffered, sometimes in unimaginable ways. And I learned.”
I stare at her. “Did you think you were being punished? For not fulfilling your purpose?”
She meets my eyes. “You’re not being punished, Clara. But yes, it was terrible at times, and it felt like punishment. I wouldn’t want that for you. But you’re forgetting that in the end it was all as it should be. That kiss on the shore happened, after all.”
“What changed your mind?” I ask, but looking at the quiet certainty on her face, I think I can guess.
“I started seeing beyond the kiss,” she answers. “And I saw you. And Jeffrey. And I got a glimpse of that happiest time.”
She looks again at the TV. The scene has shifted. Now we’re on the boardwalk at Santa Cruz. I am eating cotton candy, complaining about how sticky it is, licking my fingers. Mom demands a taste and the camera lunges in at the cotton candy. I catch a part of her face, her nose, chin, lips, as she bites off a piece.
“Yum,” I hear her say, smacking her lips for the sake of the camera.
Fourteen-year-old Clara rolls her eyes at her mother. But she smiles. Up the boardwalk, Jeffrey calls, “Look at me. Mom, look at me!” I can’t believe his voice was ever that high pitched.
The camera finds Jeffrey standing near the strong man game on the boardwalk. He’s twelve years old, scrawny as all get-out, like a stork wearing a Giant’s cap. His silver eyes are all lit up with excitement. He grins at us, then lifts the rubber mallet and brings it down hard. A ball shoots up from the base of the platform and rings a bell at the top. Lights flash. Music sounds.
My little brother just won the strong man prize.
The guy running the booth looks flabbergasted, suspicious, like Jeffrey must have cheated somehow. But he hands over the giant stuffed panda Jeffrey picks out.
“Here, Clara,” Jeffrey squeaks, running up to us with his chest all puffed out. “I won this for you.”
“Way to go, little man!” Mom says from behind the camera. “I’m so proud of you!”
“I’m little but I’m strong,” Jeffrey boasts. He never was one for being modest. “I’m Mr. Amazing!”
“How’d you do that?” Younger Clara seems as puzzled
as the carny as she accepts the giant black-and-white bear. I still have that bear. It’s on the top shelf of my closet. I named him Mr. Amazing. Until now I’d forgotten why.
“Want to see me do it again?” Jeffrey asks.
“That’s okay, buddy,” Mom says gently. “We should give the other people a chance. Besides, we don’t want to show off.”
The camera tilts as she hugs him, up into the blue, cloudless sky. For a moment the noise of the boardwalk lulls, and you can hear the crash of the surf, the cries of the seagulls. Then the screen goes blank. Happy time over.
I turn to look at Mom. Her eyes are closed and her breath is deep and even. Fast asleep.
I pull the blankets up over her. I kiss her, lightly, on the cheek, breathe in her smell of rose and vanilla. I was her happiest time, I think. And it seems, after all that she’s lived, all that she’s experienced in a hundred and twenty years on earth, being her happiest time is a huge honor.
“I love you, Mom,” I whisper, and even in sleep she hears me.
I know, she answers in my head. I love you too.
Later Dad carries her out to the back porch to see the stars. It’s a warm night, crickets chirping their hearts out, light breeze blowing. Spring is about to give way into summer. Watching my parents together, the way they seem to speak to each other without words, the way his touch seems to strengthen her, it is undeniable that their love is a powerful, transcendent thing. This love will survive her death. But was it worth it? I can’t help but wonder. Was it worth all the hardship she mentioned, the suffering of their separation, the pain of having him for such a short time and then having to let him go?
Watching them, I think it must be. When he kisses her lightly on the lips, brushes a tendril of hair out of her face, adjusts the shawl around her shoulders, she gazes up at him with nothing but pure love in her midnight eyes. She’s happy.
You will be happy, she told me.
You will shine.
Mom asks to speak with Jeffrey. He comes out on the porch with her and they have a long talk. I watch them from the living room. Jeffrey is slumped in the Adirondack chair next to Mom’s, his hands folded in his lap, looking down. I can’t hear what they’re saying, and anyway it’s none of my business, but I think maybe it’s the same thing she told me earlier. My purpose, she said, is you.