His frown softens at this. He flicks his eyes—a subtle movement, but I’m expecting it—to the photo of me and my mom hanging on the wall. I’m two years old, wearing, of course, a bright yellow sundress. My mom is in a yellow dress, too. Marigold would no doubt thoroughly approve.
“I think this is what your mom would want.” He says it so quietly, I almost think that I’ve misheard. I hope I’ve misheard.
“What did you say?” I ask. It’s masochistic maybe, but I need to hear it again.
“Your mom. I bet she’d want to come back to you. To us. If she could.”
“Don’t you dare use her in this.” I’m up, out of the chair, in two seconds flat. “I realize I barely knew her.” I shouldn’t, but I look back at the picture again, and this time, seeing my mom and me together, so happy and smiley and carefree, not knowing our countdown had already begun—I can barely keep myself together. I feel the tears rushing forward, but I can’t fall apart, not yet. I have to say these things before they burn a hole inside me. “But don’t tell me that Mom would have picked your ending. Mom would never have agreed to any of this in the first place. She would have known how wrong this was. So you know what I think Mom would say?”
“You don’t understand,” Dad whispers, shaking his head. I should stop. Maybe. But I don’t. I ignore him and keep going.
“I think she’d say that—if I have to go through this, if I have to be dragged into this mess because of you—then at the very least, I should get to have the final say. And she’d also tell us that she’s not coming back. Ever. So both of us had better just accept that and move on.”
I’m so angry that I literally cannot see the room around me. I can’t see the bookshelves, the computer, the desk. I certainly can’t see my dad’s face. Lucy is hovering at my feet, but I push her back as I blindly stumble into the hallway and up the stairs to my room.
This is what your mom would want.
He had almost twenty years with her. I had three. But still, she was my mom. She would have defended me. She would have thought about my best interests, not hers, not my dad’s. I have to believe that. It’s all I have.
The one—the only—good thing about having a parent die when you’re young is that you can spend the rest of your life believing that they would have been amazing. The best, most loving, most supportive parent imaginable. Because they never had the chance to let you down.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been looping these ugly thoughts, two minutes or two hours, when I hear a long, loud metallic scraping against the roof. I race down the stairs and run out the kitchen door onto the back patio.
“Dad?”
He’s up on a ladder, hitting the rain gutter on the edge of the roof with a big rusty hammer. I haven’t seen him do handiwork in…my entire life, maybe. Unless you count the way he duct tapes the AC units into the windows every summer, just to make them extra secure.
“Dad, what in the world are you doing?” I momentarily suspend my rage, but only because this scene is so ridiculous and unexpected. And because he’s a good twenty feet or so in the air. Arguing from that height doesn’t seem like the wisest idea.
“It’s supposed to rain tonight, and I noticed that this goddamn gutter is loose. I’m trying to bang this nail back in so it doesn’t crash down later.”
“Why don’t you ask Liam’s dad to do it? He’s good at this kind of thing.”
“I can do it, Thistle,” he says loudly, shifting on the ladder so he can look at me. “I needed to take a break from writing, from even thinking about writing, so I came out here to get some fresh air and noticed this. The whole house is starting to fall apart. Did you see the banister on the steps, how it’s tilting at the top? And there’s the broken tiles on the bathroom floor.”
In the past few months, Dad has subtly—and not so subtly—started talking about the idea of a bigger, newer house outside the city. A change of scenery. But I’ve shut it down every time. I won’t leave Liam. And I won’t leave Mom’s house. Even after I go to college, this is supposed to be home base.
“The house is fine, and we have the money to pay professionals to fix things.”
“I don’t need professionals.” He’s back to hammering, banging even harder now. It looks like, if anything, his attempts will knock the gutter off entirely, rather than somehow miraculously refasten it to the roof. “And once we hand this manuscript in, I’ll have plenty of time to get to the other issues. Do at least some temporary fixes.”
The gutter starts to shake. I back up farther in the yard so that I won’t be under it, just in case.
“Dad, seriously, I don’t think you’re helping.”
“Thistle, please. Please just let me do this.”
“I’m just saying, it looks like it’s about to—”
And as if my words somehow willed it, the gutter tears from the roof with a terrible, ear-splitting clash of metal on metal that no doubt the whole street can hear. It swings for a second, two, three, as if magically suspended, dangling in midair, before it spirals to the ground.
Before I can call out, before I can move, I watch as the ladder teeters and starts to fall away from the house. Dad makes a grab for the roof, hands frantically scrambling for an anchor. But his fingers slide off and he’s slipping through air, a tangle of arms and legs.
There are screams, too—mine or his or both.
I hear his body hit the ground, the hard crunch of skin and bones against the concrete patio, and I can only think one thing:
I’m an orphan now.
eight
Weeks passed with no trips to the Afterworld because Marigold’s dad kept a close eye on her. She had decided she couldn’t tell him the truth, that he’d never for a second entertain any of it. So she’d wait it out. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t see Jonah. For Colton’s sake.
“I still don’t believe you,” Jonah said one summer afternoon as they sat in a park near her house. “But let’s pretend for a minute. Is he happy in the Afterworld?”
“I wouldn’t say happy. Or sad. But he worries about how you and your mom are doing.”
“Wait. Colt isn’t watching us from up there or wherever it is?” Jonah asked.
“No, I wish, but—”
Jonah was looking at Marigold now, staring at her with Colton’s beautiful eyes. “What’s in it for you? That’s what I don’t get.”
“I care about your brother. I want to help put his mind at ease.”
“That’s it? Purely altruistic?”
“That and—I lost my mom a few days before you lost Colton. I’m searching for her, and your brother is helping me.”
—EXCERPT FROM LEMONADE SKIES, BOOK 1: GIRL IN THE AFTERWORLD
Dad is awake in the ambulance, though he’s in too much pain to talk.
I still worry that this is it, that Dad will leave me, too. Liam’s mom had been working at home, so she came over before we left, and she had looked just as terrified as I felt when she waved us off in the ambulance.
We get to the hospital and Dad’s whisked away into the ER. I’m alone in the waiting room, breathing in air that smells too antiseptic and metallic. Liam texts me for the first hour or two after school lets out, asking me nearly every five minutes if there are any updates. Then my phone dies and it’s almost a relief when the screen goes blank.
After what seems like an eternity, a doctor finally comes out to talk to me. Dr. Pulice. She seems friendly and confident enough, even though she looks too young, like she must be fresh out of med school. But I trust her when she says that Dad will be okay.
It’s not pretty, though: a fractured skull, two broken arms and a broken ankle, swelling and bruising just about everywhere. Dad’s ankle is so badly broken it requires the placement of an external fixator, which Dr. Pulice has to explain to me: a metal device that stretches from his ankle to his knee, drilled
from the outside into the bone. Both arms are in slings and will need to be immobilized to heal on their own. Which means he’ll have very limited movement for the next six weeks, and that’s just the beginning of his recovery.
I listen in a daze, nodding. Dr. Pulice takes me to see him in the ICU, and even though he’s attached to a thousand machines and has IVs sticking out at awkward angles from his bruised, bandaged, broken body, I have never been more relieved.
“Dad! You’re alive!” I walk quickly to the side of his bed, but I’m scared to touch him.
“I’m alive,” he says, his voice scratchy and whispery. He looks exhausted. And drugged. His eyes are on me but he’s not looking at me. “What happened? It’s so…foggy.”
“You fell from the ladder. But it’s fine, you’re fine,” I say, leaning in to give him a soft kiss on his cheek, so light my lips graze more air than skin. “You just get some rest. I’ll be here.”
I sit down on the chair by his bed, watching as his eyes droop. I don’t necessarily believe in a god, but I pray anyway because I’m so grateful and still so scared. Dad should never have climbed that ladder. But he wouldn’t have been up there at all if we hadn’t fought. If it weren’t for Marigold.
Marigold.
How will he be in any state to finish before the deadline? What will we tell Susan and Elliot?
“Thistle,” he says, interrupting my thoughts, and I’m ashamed that I’m worrying about Marigold right now, because she, for once, isn’t the center of our existence.
“Is someone taking care of Lucy?” he asks, his eyes still closed.
“Yes, of course,” I lie. “But I’ll call and check in.” I pat his hand, very delicately, and then stand and turn toward the hallway.
A particularly cheery nurse greets me at the front desk and lets me use the hospital phone. I dial from memory. Liam picks up after half a ring.
“It’s me,” I practically yell into the phone.
“Thistle? What’s going on? Why did you stop texting?”
“I’m so sorry, my phone died, and I don’t have a charger here, and my dad’s pretty beat up but he’s going to be okay.” I feel tears welling as I say those words out loud.
“Oh thank god,” Liam says, sighing into the phone.
I start telling him everything I know so far, and it’s only when I finish and take a breath that I remember why I called in the first place. “Lucy. Is Lucy okay?”
“My mom brought her over to our house,” he says. “She’s great. I’m here, by the way.”
“What? Here where?”
“In the cafeteria getting coffee. I got here right before you called. I wanted to be close if you needed me.”
I drop the handset on the desk and walk as fast as I can without running, following the overhead signs toward the elevator bank, and then down to the ground floor. The fluorescently lit cafeteria is straight in front of me when I step off the elevator. I push through two wide swinging doors, and there’s Liam, cell still in his hand, pacing in circles.
I swing my arms around him from behind, throwing my body against his. He turns and hugs me back just as fiercely.
“I was so scared for you,” he whispers.
“I was so scared for me, too.” I kiss his cheek and then pull back a few inches, glancing up to meet his eyes. They look just as tired as I feel. “It must be so late. What time is it?”
“Not that late. Just after ten.”
“But it’s a weeknight. You have school tomorrow.”
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. That’s what coffee is for. My parents said I could come. They wanted to be here, too, but I said I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
I feel a new rush of appreciation for Liam. Because right now, I can’t imagine anyone or anything else in the world I’d rather see. I lean in and kiss him again, this time on the lips.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I say when I finally pull away. I reach down for his hand and squeeze.
He tugs at my arm, pulling me over to a bench to sit. “In case you’re hungry…” He pulls out a Christmas tin from a paper bag on the floor and takes the lid off. There’s a pile of parakeet-shaped shortbread cookies, covered in sugar sprinkles, every color of the rainbow.
“My mom told Mrs. Rizzo. She came over right after the ambulance pulled away. She’d been napping when it happened, she said, but woke up to the sirens, and she was pretty shook up, Thistle. I’ve never seen her looking so—so fragile, I guess. Like without her usual witch mask on she was just some tired old lady. It was weird. I didn’t like it.”
For the first time in my life, I feel bad for Mrs. Rizzo, even if she can be a crotchety old gossip. She’s always alone. Her husband died before I was born. And if there are kids, I’ve never seen them. I’ve never thought to even wonder about it.
I grab a parakeet and take a bite. I’m surprised to discover how completely delicious it is. I’ve been missing out. I eat two more before I stand up, brush crumbs from my lap. “I should see how Dad’s doing. It’ll only take a minute. He needs his rest. Will you wait for me?”
Liam stands, too. “Sure,” he says, pausing to brush a stray curl behind my ear.
“I just…I need you here for a little longer.” I have to take care of Dad. But I need someone to take care of me, too.
“Okay. Then here is where I’ll be.”
* * *
Home. Finally.
Dad stayed at the hospital for eight days—he needed additional monitoring of his brain for bleeding. He’s been engaging more each day, though we haven’t talked about anything except how he’s feeling physically, or what the weather was like outside the hospital windows. I couldn’t bring myself to mention Marigold, but the fact that he hasn’t said anything about her yet is unsettling.
The deadline is tomorrow. Twenty-four hours.
Dad’s either lost an entire chunk of his memory, or he’s in too much pain to care about anything but more sleep. He was supposed to go straight to inpatient rehab for the next six weeks, but he refused—he wanted to be home with me. He demanded a plan B. And he won. We’ll have a nurse to stay with us around the clock for as long as he needs her, and an occupational therapist coming over weekly to help ease him back into everyday activities. He’ll be in a wheelchair for at least six weeks. But because his arms were both broken on the upper half, he still has the use of his elbows and wrists…so I think that maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to at least hunt and peck on the computer keyboard. Things could be worse. Much worse.
The nurse, Mia, stopped by the house ahead of time to get ready for Dad’s big return, which mostly involved converting the office into a makeshift bedroom so that he doesn’t need to be moved up any stairs. She seems pleasant enough—a bit younger than Dad, I’d guess, with thick curly black hair spilling out from a long braid that hangs down her back, rosy light brown skin, and a soft voice that reminds me of summer breezes.
Lucy—who stayed at Liam’s house so I could mostly be at the hospital, sleeping in Dad’s room every night—looks as disoriented as I feel when we all come in together, Mia pushing Dad in his wheelchair through the hall, showing him his new room. Lucy sniffs frantically around Mia’s hands, legs, bags, before she hobbles into the kitchen to be alone.
I follow her, grabbing a handful of her favorite biscuits from a jar on the counter. I’m groveling because I didn’t visit her once this past week and I am the worst pet mother in the world. I cabbed home a few times, mostly to shower and change clothes and meet with Mia, and it never occurred to me to stop in to see Lucy. I saw Liam, but only at the hospital, not here.
Now instead of tripping over my heels like she usually does, she is very pointedly hiding under the kitchen table, sulking. I kneel under the table, too, offering her the biscuits. I’m the lowly servant bowing down to my deity. She sniffs for a few seconds—as if she’s actually considering not t
aking them—before snapping up the biscuits, leaving my empty hands covered in gooey strings of slobber.
“I love you, old lady.” I sigh, nuzzling my head against her ears. “I’m so sorry I forgot about you.”
There’s a list of about ten incredibly urgent things that I should be doing right now. I need to call Susan—or no, definitely e-mail, an actual phone call would be way too terrifying—so that she can break the news to Elliot. I haven’t told her yet that we won’t make the deadline because it all feels like too much, and because deep down, underneath my fear about Dad, there’s something else I’m afraid of that is just as petrifying in its own way. With the deadline looming and Dad in his current state, I can’t help but wonder what would happen if he can’t write and we get caught.
And now that we’re home, the fear is even more palpable. Could we be sued? Lose our money? The fact that my dad is the author doesn’t make these books any less good, does it? Any less deserving of the praise, the fans all around the world? It was the writing that made them fall in love—it was Marigold and her beautiful world. But I’m not sure that Susan and Elliot and the rest of Zenith Publishers would look at it that way.
I feel dizzy suddenly. The kitchen is too warm, Lucy’s breathing is too loud.
I push up off the floor and go to my bedroom, closing the door behind me. I’d deleted the e-mail app off my phone while I was at the hospital, so I’m not surprised when I log into e-mail on my laptop to see a long string of unread messages: Elliot and Susan, mostly; my publicist, my online-marketing guru, a few foreign editors. My dad is cc’ed on everything, as per usual. I decide to keep the app off my phone. Thank goodness Susan and Elliot both refuse to text their clients.
The Undoing of Thistle Tate Page 8
