Between

by Jessica Warman

  Mera and Topher are exactly the same as they’ve always been: Topher still smokes, then brushes and flosses obsessively; he and Mera are still the golden couple of the school. Their affection used to make me feel endlessly annoyed, but it doesn’t bother me so much anymore. I’m happy for them. They deserve to be happy.

  And then there’s Richie. On this particular morning, he steps out his front door and leans against a post on his porch, stretching his hamstrings. He’s become quite the runner lately. I can understand why.

  He looks down the street at my old house. Since Josie won’t be finishing the school year at Noank High, my father has said he wants to sell it quickly. Already he’s had a few offers, but he’s rejected them all. I don’t know why. He and Nicole barely speak to each other anymore, and I’m guessing they’ll get a divorce sooner or later. Once, shortly after Josie was arrested, my dad confronted Nicole to ask her if she’d known that Josie was responsible for my death. She insisted she had no idea. I want to believe her. I really do. But I can’t be certain. For years, she pretended to be my mother’s friend, while she and my father were having an affair. What kind of person does that? In my heart, I know there’s a chance that she had an inkling of Josie’s act. If she did know, I’m certain she would have stayed silent to protect her own daughter.

  More than any other feeling, though, my heart breaks for my father. In one lifetime, he has lost two wives and two daughters. How does a person move on from something like that? I can’t imagine what he’ll do. For now, he still spends most of his time on the boat, even though it’s freezing in Connecticut, where winter comes early and almost always overstays its welcome.

  Richie begins to trot down the street. As I’m watching him, I feel a familiar twitching in my legs. It’s the desire to run, I know; I’ve felt it every day since I died. But this time something’s different. This time, the feeling is encouraging instead of frustrating. It feels possible.

  I slip off my boots. I’ve done it plenty of times before, but until this moment, I’ve never been able to keep them off. I’d look down and there they’d be again, pinching my toes, the pain so constant and sharp that I never got used to it.

  But not today. Today, they stay off. I wiggle my toes with excitement, unafraid to run barefoot. I bite my lip and smile, hopeful. Then I start running, following Richie down the street. He’s still slow. I’m much faster. Before long I’ve caught up with him, and I’m right beside him. The stones on the road against the bottoms of my feet don’t bother me a bit.

  When Richie reaches the end of my street, he pauses. If he goes right, it will take him into town; if he makes a left, he’ll be heading toward the beach, but also toward the boat docks, where he and I are both looking at my dad, sitting on the front deck of the Elizabeth in a sweater and coat, sipping from a flask, staring at the water. Just staring. Oh, Daddy.

  Richie looks around. For an instant, he looks directly into my eyes. Even though I know he can’t see me, I give him my biggest smile. “I love you, Richie Wilson,” I tell him. “Always have. Always will.”

  That’s when he decides. He makes a left, jogging toward the docks. When he reaches the Elizabeth, he stands wordlessly before my father, the silence awkward, even though the two of them have known each other for years. At first it’s like my dad doesn’t even see him. But then he looks over, puts down his flask, and says, “Richie. Hi.”

  “Hi, Mr. Valchar.” Richie catches his breath. “I saw you sitting down here, and I just thought— Well, I don’t know. I thought maybe you could use some company.”

  Richie has been in my house a thousand times, shared countless conversations with my dad over the years. But right now it’s uncomfortable, the two of them staring at each other, so much unspoken pain between them.

  “I like being alone,” my dad says. “Just being out here … it makes me feel closer to Liz sometimes.” He pauses. “Not all the time. But sometimes. And that’s enough.”

  “Mr. Valchar,” Richie says, “I’ve been wanting to talk to you for a while. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. If I hadn’t taken Liz to that garage to get her car fixed, she never would have met Vince Aiello. Everything might have turned out differently.” He stares at the dock. “Sometimes I feel like it’s all my fault.”

  “You can’t think that way,” my dad says. “It’s over now. You didn’t know everything. You were only trying to help.”

  Richie shades his eyes from the bright sun as he looks at my dad. “Still. I’m sorry. I wanted you to know, I think about her every day. What happened between me and Josie, it was nothing. It was just that I felt comforted by her, you know?” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe it, but it’s true. Knowing the two of them were half sisters—”

  “They weren’t,” my dad interrupts, suddenly alert.

  “What do you mean?” Richie is confused. “We all thought—I mean, even my parents thought you were Josie’s dad.”

  My father picks up his flask again, takes a tiny nip. “When you kids were young, they didn’t have things like DNA testing yet. Nicole always told me she wasn’t sure, and when she and I got married, since Josie’s father moved so far away—I mean, he certainly thought I was her dad—I don’t know. We all thought it would be better if we didn’t know. I thought Josie deserved a real dad. I tried to be that for her. I thought there was a good enough chance. But after … after she got arrested, I asked for a blood test.” He shakes his head. “Can you believe it? All these years, and now I find out she’s not mine.” He takes another drink, wincing as he swallows. “Liz always loved having a sister. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  Richie doesn’t say anything.

  “So all that bullshit Josie believed about destiny, about things happening for a reason … Josie thinking she was gaining something when she hurt Liz, whatever the hell she was thinking she was destined for. And the way she went after you. Like she wanted to be just like her mom. Like it would have mattered, or been okay, even if she were my daughter! It was all bullshit. There is no destiny. No soul mates.” My father looks around. “There’s just a bunch of death.”

  Richie takes a slow breath. “I’m sorry, Mr. Valchar, but I have to disagree with you on that. Liz was my soul mate. She was the only girl I ever loved. I wanted to love her forever. I will love her forever.”

  My dad nods. “I know you will. So will I.”

  There is more silence. I close my eyes for a moment, thinking of Richie. He might have been the love of my life, but he still has plenty more living to do.

  “How are you doing?” my dad asks. “I mean, I know things are hard for you, but do you think you’ll be okay?”

  Richie looks like he wants to cry. “I’ve been doing a lot of running,” he says, not exactly answering the question. “It helps me to clear my head. Sometimes when I’m out there, I’ll go for whole stretches of time without hurting. Without thinking about Liz.” He pauses. “It helps. For a long time, I didn’t think I’d be okay. Not ever. But now I think … I think it’s possible. Maybe someday.” He studies my dad. “What about you, sir? Will you be okay?”

  My dad doesn’t answer right away. Finally, not looking at Richie, he says, “Liz would want that, wouldn’t she? She would want us to go on. She would want us to live our lives, to remember all the happy times we had together.” He takes another sip of liquor. “It’s hard to remember them sometimes, but there were lots of happy times. Weren’t there?”

  “Yes.” Richie nods. “There were so many.”

  Since my death, people have often commented about what I might want for them. Plenty of times, they were wrong. But my dad and Richie are right. All I want is for them to live. To go forward with the understanding that every moment is precious; every day is a blessing. To see life for what it truly is: a series of endless possibilities, not just for great pain, but for great joy.

  Finally, I understand why I’m still here. To let them go.

  “You’ll be okay, Richie,” I whisper.

  My father
leans back in his seat. He gives Richie a sad smile. “Life goes on.”

  For now, I know, his words will have to do. They aren’t exactly an answer to Richie’s question. But they’re enough.

  There is a long pause. Richie asks, “So you’re moving?”

  “Looks that way. We’ll see what happens.” My dad shifts in his seat. As though he’s only realizing now how cold it is outside, he shivers. “You should get on with your run, then, if it makes you feel better. I don’t want to keep you.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you around, sir. Right? At least for a while?”

  “Right.” My dad manages another smile. “Go. Run.”

  I watch Richie as he makes his way back along the docks and onto the street, breaking into a jog once he hits the pavement. I don’t feel any desire to follow him.

  My dad puts his flask into his coat pocket, gets up like he’s preparing to go inside.

  “Daddy,” I say to him, “I love you.”

  He doesn’t pause or flinch or give any other sign that he’s heard me. But once he’s disappeared inside the boat, I feel the most amazing sense of calm. Like I’ve done everything I can to make things better. The rest is up to them.

  Without knowing it, I’ve stepped to the edge of the dock. It is almost the exact place, I realize, where I fell into the water the night I died.

  The sea is calm and clear. I gaze downward, expecting to glimpse my reflection.

  But it’s not there. Instead, I see my mother’s face. She is young, happy, smiling at me. She looks healthy.

  There’s no need to hold my breath. I look around one last time. I wiggle my toes, so grateful that they are finally free.

  I jump into the water. Everything is warm and bright. I am not afraid at all.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would not have been possible without the help and support of so many people who have believed in it from the very beginning and who have been such amazing cheerleaders as it evolved into the final product. My sincere thanks to my editor, Stacy Cantor Abrams, who continues to be one of my favorite people to work with, and to my incredible agent and great friend, Andrea Somberg. I also want to thank Rebecca Mancini for her amazing work, as well as Deb Shapiro and everyone else at Walker. I am so, so grateful to be part of your wonderful team. In addition, I want to express my gratitude to Rachel Boden for her fabulous insight. This book would not be what it is without each of these individuals; I am so excited and proud of all the work we have done together!

  ALSO BY JESSICA WARMAN

  Breathless

  Where the Truth Lies

  Copyright © 2011 by Jessica Warman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  First published in the United States of America in August 2011

  by Walker Publishing Company, Inc., a division of Bloomsbury Publishing, Inc.

  E-book edition published in August 2011

  www.bloomsburyteens.com

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to

  Permissions, Walker BFYR, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10010

  Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

  Warman, Jessica.

  Between / Jessica Warman. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: By weaving through her memories and watching the family and friends she left behind, eighteen-year-old Liz Valchar solves the mystery of how her life ended in the Long Island Sound.

  ISBN 978-0-8027-2182-2 (hardcover)

  [1. Afterlife—Fiction. 2. Dead—Fiction. 3. Family problems—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.W2374Bet 2011 [Fic]—dc22 2010040986

  ISBN 978-0-8027-2321-5 (e-book)