“Dad?” I say.
“I’m fine, Thistle,” he responds quickly, and then coughs, clearing his throat. “Nothing to worry about, sorry I woke you. You can go back to bed.”
I take a deep breath and ignore him, turn the knob, and push the door open, blinking my eyes a few times as the room comes into focus. The light is on, and my dad is in bed, the blankets covered in photos and papers and women’s jewelry. It must be my mom’s.
“What—?” I start, but then move closer to the bed.
“I’m sorry, I’m fine, I really am,” my dad mutters, gathering up a thick pile of what look like handwritten letters. “It was just seeing you in her sweater this morning…it made me think about her even more than usual.”
I pick up a photo I’ve never seen before—my mom and dad on a beach, laughing into the wind, hair blowing wildly. “What is this stuff? You’ve never shown me any of it.”
He’s silent for a moment before saying, “I know, sweetie. I haven’t even let myself look at these things in a long time, but you’re right, I should share these pictures with you. Not tonight, but soon, okay?”
I put the photo back down on the bed. “What are those letters? Can I read them?”
“They’re—they’re a bit private, actually.”
“Did Mom write them?”
“Yeah. She loved writing letters, especially ones she would never send.”
“I want to read them. Please let me?”
“Maybe someday.” He sighs, dropping the letters into a red metal box.
The anger is seeping in, slow and heavy, and I’m gritting my teeth, deciding how much of a fight I’m ready to start right now. But then I see a photo that’s fallen to the floor just below me, and I pause, bending down to pick it up so that I can study it more closely.
My mom, waving from the driver’s seat of a bright blue car. It takes me another few seconds, but then I realize I’m there, too—tiny two- or three-year-old me—smiling out the window in the backseat.
“Was this the car…?”
“Yes.” He’s clearing the rest of the bed, the last traces of my mom quickly disappearing back into that red box. “It’s very late. You should go back to bed.”
I want to say more, push harder. But I go to my room instead, slamming my door behind me.
After restless tossing and turning, I eventually fall back to sleep. There’s no more Sherlock, though, no more Benedict. I’m Marigold now, or Marigold is me, I can’t tell—it’s so blurry, bright, like a photo overexposed in the sun. But I’m climbing up a flight of stairs inside that grand skyscraper toward my mom, I can tell that much—I can feel it deep in my bones.
Closer, closer.
Close, but never quite there.
six
Marigold felt like a stalker.
She’d taken the train into Philly and had been waiting on a bench outside Jonah’s school for over an hour now—a Thursday afternoon, because Colton had told her that was when Jonah’s debate team met, and she wouldn’t have to find him in the usual afterschool crowd. That this would be easier.
At 4:25 he finally emerged. He was alone, preoccupied with something on his phone. Marigold knew Jonah would look exactly like Colton, of course. They were identical twins. But still, she hadn’t been prepared for the utter exactness of it all: their tight black curls, their dimpled cheeks, and their dark-lashed golden eyes like perfect mirror images.
“Jonah,” she said, standing up.
He looked at her, startled.
“My name is Marigold. And I know your brother.”
—EXCERPT FROM LEMONADE SKIES, BOOK 1: GIRL IN THE AFTERWORLD
The next morning, my dad and I pretend the night before never happened. And I can almost believe it, too. We’re so good at acting around here.
He works on the book while I sit next to him and occasionally nod when he asks for an opinion. Usually our mornings revolve around Marigold, and afternoons are reserved for homeschooling curriculum—but it switches some days, depending on when Dad is struck by inspiration. He tinkers without me, too, but only when he’s obsessively rereading or editing or polishing, not when he’s working on new material. It makes him feel less guilty, I think. I’m always included in the creating, not that my opinions count for much.
Dad tells me to take a break after lunch, so I curl up on my bed and start reading. I have just a few pages left of an advance reader’s copy for a debut author, a sort of Wild West space-opera mash-up. I finish, too quickly, and decide that this one is worthy of a blurb, no matter what Dad says. I sit at my desk and write the quote, then open my e-mail and send it off to the author. I scroll through a string of publicity requests next, about to close out when I see it: a message from Emma Flynn.
I’d forgotten about the e-mail already. And for some reason, I hadn’t actually pictured a scenario in which she would respond.
Hey, Thistle. It’s Oliver. Emma’s in the hospital right now, so she had me checking her e-mail. She’s okay, nothing too serious, just had to be stabilized. Should be a few days. I didn’t tell her you e-mailed yet because I wanted to ask if maybe you could stop by? Just a quick hello. Tomorrow or Sunday maybe? I know this is a huge favor to ask. So no pressure, seriously. But just in case you can, she’s at the Children’s Hospital. Give her name at the front desk. If not, totally cool. E-mail was great. Thanks again.—O
I close the e-mail. Maybe I can pretend it slipped into spam. Let my e-mail be enough, like Oliver said. Because I shouldn’t go. I really shouldn’t.
I run through the possibilities: I do go, and she’s so super-appreciative that I feel even more terrible than usual for days. I don’t go, and Emma is fine, she reads the e-mail later and thinks I’m great. I don’t go, and Emma dies, and I regret forever that I didn’t brighten her final days. Ugh. I want to erase that last possibility from my brain. Because it’s the only one I can see now.
I’ll think about it. Sleep on it tonight.
But I’m distracted during my homeschooling lessons all afternoon. My first date with Liam. The late-night conversation with Dad. Mom. Emma and Oliver. Dad’s too busy to notice, tinkering with our latest chapter while I work on calc. Two weeks until the deadline, he reminded me earlier, as if I could somehow forget.
Two weeks, and four chapters to go.
Dad was way ahead of schedule for the first two books, but not this time. The stakes are higher, crafting the perfect ending for the series. He deletes more than he writes each day.
Somehow the afternoon actually passes, and Liam comes over after dinner. Again, no Ping-Pong balls. As much as I love tradition, I like that he’s using the front door now. I like that it marks a new era for us. My dad’s holed up in the office tonight with the door shut, so we claim the sofa. We’re deep into a fierce game of Scrabble—I’m just an i away from crushing him with quixotic—when I tell him about Emma.
“So, wait,” he says, after I’ve started briefing him about Oliver, his eyes still squinting at his row of tiles. “This was the ginger guy you were talking to at the signing, right? I wondered why he was there. I assumed it was for a sister or a girlfriend or something like that. No offense. Not your usual demographic.”
“Right,” I say, nodding, “and he said his sister was sick, and she’d love if I wrote her an e-mail. So I did. Last night. Just a short note saying I hoped she felt better. But then I heard from Oliver today, and she’s in the hospital, so…”
“He wants you to visit?”
“Yeah. He said no pressure, though.”
“Yeah, easy to say no pressure, but he’s putting pressure on you just by asking. What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know. I assume cancer, but who knows? She’s sick enough to be in the hospital. That’s what I can’t stop thinking about.”
“Wait,” he says, turning to me. He’s frowning, his eyebrows p
inching together in one heavy dark line. “You’re not actually considering going, right?”
“Well, I don’t—” I stop, reach down to pet Lucy, using her as an excuse to look away. I do this a lot, I realize. She’s my crutch. “Maybe? I don’t know. I haven’t decided anything yet.”
“I mean, I know it’s not up to me, it’s your call. But…you don’t want to lie to this sick girl, do you? It just seems—I don’t know, even more wildly unethical than usual.”
“Wildly unethical?” I turn to face him.
“Well, I mean…come on?” He’s looking at me like he doesn’t have to say the full sentence. Like of course we both know exactly what he means.
And I do. Oh, I do. I know it’s all unethical—wildly unethical, as Liam put it. I knew from the day I said yes, we could go with Susan Van Buren—and I know it a thousand times more now. The truth is sharp and heavy and suffocating. I wear it all day, every day. It’s why I hide from most people. Why my world is so small. Too small.
I don’t need Liam to remind me. And his judging me out loud for the first time ever makes me say, “I’m going to do it,” the words spilling out before I can stop myself. “I’m going to go see Emma in the hospital. I know I’m a lie—it’s a lie—but maybe it’ll make her happy. Is that so wrong? To use the lie for one good cause?” I’m still not sure I want to go, but now I have to. The line has been drawn—by me, like a thick black Sharpie marker on a bright white sheet of paper. I can’t back down.
“I’m sorry, but…I just don’t get it,” Liam says quietly. “I try so hard to be supportive of you, I really do. But I guess you have to do what you need to do. It’s your life.”
My anger is fading, and I’m not sure what I’m feeling now. Fear, maybe. Fear that I’ve permanently damaged this tenuous new bond with Liam. Because what he said is true. And he’s upset because he cares. Because he has morals. That’s part of what I love about him. But if everything I do is unethical, why not use it for some good once in a while? Why not make one sick girl just a little bit happier?
He smiles at me, small and hesitant, and then says, “I’m gonna head out, Coach is making us come in tomorrow morning for extra practice. I hate early Saturdays, but we have some big meets coming up. We’re okay, right?” His already dark eyes look even darker than usual, wide and unblinking.
“Of course we’re okay,” I say, grabbing his hand. “Though I am mildly upset I didn’t get to properly win this round…I’m saving the tiles.”
We kiss by the door, but it’s a quick peck tonight.
“I’ll see you later tomorrow,” he says, giving me one last hug before stepping onto the porch.
“Tomorrow,” I say back. After I go to the hospital, I think.
I watch him through the glass pane until he disappears behind his side of the brick wall. And I decide: I’m not going to let Dad in on what would usually be an official Thistle Tate Team Decision. I’ll say I’m in the mood for a long walk, or that I’m going out to see a movie. The thought sends a tiny thrill through me, which is pathetic. It’s a pretty unrebellious way to go against your parent, visiting a sick girl in the hospital.
* * *
I check the Post-it with Emma’s room number. I’ve only been to the Children’s Hospital once before, a charity read-a-thon that I signed at, along with two other local authors. I was in a cheerily decorated common area then, though, not a hospital room.
Yes, definitely the door in front of me. I’m here, even if I’m still not sure I want to be. I step closer, easing in along the wall so that no one inside the room can see me. I pause, listening. A low beeping, TV news, a woman laughing. I can’t tell what’s coming from Emma’s room and what’s coming from the other rooms around me. I take another step, now just inches away from the partly opened door.
I hear another laugh, but it’s a guy this time. Oliver maybe? I’m not sure how well I remember the sound of his voice. But I do remember that smile on his face when I stumbled at my event, talking about my mom. How much I had resented him for it. And now I’m here, about to visit his sister—and him, it would seem.
I lift my hand, my fingers squeezing into a clammy fist. But I freeze there, my knuckles nearly grazing the door frame. Ten minutes. You only have to stay for ten minutes. I’ll say I need to get back home to write—Marigold deadlines and all that. Emma will appreciate that reasoning.
I knock on the doorframe. A second passes, two tops, and then I catch a glimpse of Oliver’s bright red hair, his freckly face as he pokes his head out of the room.
“Whoa,” he says, looking completely stunned. “You actually came. That’s so awesome.”
He steps into the hallway—in black again, head to toe. There’s not even any type or logo on his shirt this time to break it up. Black, black, more black.
I want to ask him now—to mentally prep myself—Why is Emma here? But she can probably hear everything from the room.
“Is this a good time?” I ask instead. “I don’t have long…” I let the sentence drop off, not wanting to blatantly lie.
“Sure, totally great.” He gently grabs my arm, nudging me a few feet away from the door. “Emma is doing okay,” he says, his voice much lower this time. “Crohn’s. Nasty rough patch right now.”
“Crohn’s…?” Not cancer then. Crohn’s. It has something to do with the intestines, I know that much. It’s a word I’ve heard but never actually thought about.
“Crohn’s disease. Inflamed GI—gastrointestinal—tract, essentially. Emma’s had it for a few years now. Sometimes she seems perfectly fine, barely has any symptoms. But then other times, like now…” He shakes his head. “It can get pretty bad. She has something called a stricture, which means she has so much swelling in her intestines that they became blocked and don’t work right anymore. She was in a lot of pain, but they’ve been reducing the inflammation since she got here. The good news is that she probably won’t need surgery. Not now, at least.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, though I wish I had something more insightful or more meaningful to offer him. “That sounds pretty terrible.”
“It is, but she’s a trouper. She’ll get through it. And she’ll definitely feel better now that you’re here. You’ll be a temporary miracle cure.”
I give a weak smile, and we stand there for a moment, staring at each other in the cold fluorescent light of the hallway.
“Should we go in?” I ask finally. “I’m sure she’s wondering who in the world you’re out here talking to.” Ten minutes, I remind myself. Ten.
“Yeah, of course,” he says, smiling again. “Our mom had to run some errands and my dad—he’s a lawyer—is busy working on some big case, so it’s just me and Em.” He’s already walking back through the door.
I peer into the room slowly, cautiously, hoping to see Emma before she sees me so that I have a second to mentally compose myself. But Oliver’s female clone is already staring at me from the bed. She’s a few years younger and a bit skinnier, I can tell, but other than that and an extra ten inches of that flaming-red hair, they could be identical twins.
“Hey there, Emma,” I say, my voice embarrassingly high-pitched and squeaky. “I’m—”
“Thistle Tate!” she finishes for me, jerking upright from her pillows. “Oh my god, Ollie, how the fuck did you get Thistle to come here?”
“So crude, Em, cursing in front of our esteemed visitor,” Oliver says, but he’s chuckling.
Emma turns to me. “Hospital rules. Mom and Dad let me curse here, as long as it’s not directly to a doctor or nurse. They know it sucks, so they tell me that the least I can do is say fuck and shit and hell as much as I damn well please.”
“I keep telling them that it’s a terrible rule,” Oliver mutters.
“I totally fucking support it,” I say, feeling bold enough to step right up to her bedside.
Emma squeals with laughter. “Oh
man, I didn’t think you could get any cooler. You just nailed it!” She lifts her hand to high-five, and I slap it, but lightly. I can’t stop looking at the tube sticking straight into her arm, her skin so white it’s nearly translucent.
“Trust me, these things are much more secure than they look.”
“Sorry.” My cheeks feel hot. I force myself to meet her light green eyes, the exact same shade as Oliver’s. “I’ve just…I’ve never visited anyone in the hospital before.”
“I hate that I had to ruin your lucky streak. But I was so bummed to miss your event the other night. I thought Ollie was a god just for getting me the signed books, but this…! This is pretty ridiculously outstanding, even for him. Your book is what’s making this particular episode even remotely bearable. I can almost forget about the shitty things going on with my body when I’m hanging out with Marigold.”
She’s pointing to the table next to her bed, where there’s a copy of Between Two Worlds propped open. She’s more than halfway through.
“What do you think so far?” I regret asking this the second I hear my words out loud. I wanted to avoid book talk as much as possible. Stick to general niceties—the weather, hospital food, whatever it is you talk about when you’re visiting someone in the hospital. But not Marigold.
“This is my second time reading it. I started again yesterday. It’s perfection. Thank god she’s found her mom—I was hoping you wouldn’t make us wait until the last book! I seriously bawled. Also I have to say, and I know you probably get this all the time and you’re sick of hearing people geek out on you, but…totally on Team Jonah.”
I can’t help but grin at that. “So am I. But don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“Is that a teaser for the next book?” There’s a machine beeping quietly behind her, and I swear the beeps are getting faster. “It is, isn’t it? I hope she picks Jonah instead of Colton. You can just tell when they’re together, what they have is so much more real. Colton tries to act all perfect, but he’s so clingy and sulky and he’s totally got an ego. Even if he wasn’t dead and some weird ghostly thing in the Afterworld, he’s like the guy that every girl thinks she wants, sexy and brooding and whatnot, but not the guy they actually need. You know?”
The Undoing of Thistle Tate Page 6
