The Undoing of Thistle Tate

by Katelyn Detweiler

“Where do you want to go?” I ask, realizing for the first time that this friendship already has an expiration date. He’ll be—we’ll both be—leaving next year for college. I’ll be flying, up, up, away. Gone.

  “I don’t know. I have a list, but I haven’t applied anywhere yet. I’m going to major in English—amateur, I know, since you wrote awesome books without it. If I had real talent, I’d know by now.”

  “Shut up,” I say, bumping against his shoulder. There’s no bitterness in his voice, though, not even a sliver of jealousy. He glances down at me and grins, and I fight the urge to push back the thin strand of coppery-red hair that’s gotten caught in his eyelashes. I make myself turn away.

  “It feels like I could go anywhere, really. I used to think about heading out west and going to school in Colorado, Oregon, Washington. Somewhere far away, more mellow. I don’t know, though. I’m going to apply to local schools, too. Temple, Drexel, St. Joe’s. I hate thinking about leaving Emma. I know it’s silly, and not what she would tell me to do. She’s going to be fine. And it’s not like I can really help. But we’ve gotten so close these past two years. We have each other’s backs. It seems much harder from across the country.”

  “Yeah, I get it.” That’s how I’d always felt about Liam, even if I didn’t want to admit to myself that he was a factor in my college decisions. And maybe I would have felt that way about leaving Dad, too, if things hadn’t gone so terribly downhill. “You have to do what feels right,” I say, forcing my thoughts back to Oliver and his life, his choices, not mine.

  We’re at the museum then, thankfully, passing through the grand wrought-iron gate and pillared wooden doors. I push forward into the lobby, toward the visitors’ stand, paying for two tickets before Oliver can stop me. “It’s payback for your help with everything. I’d be hacking away at the writer’s block forever without you and Emma.”

  “Well, you made it through two other books without us, so I’m not so sure we’re that essential, but I’ll still take that ticket, don’t worry.” He winks—a graceful, seamless wink—and starts off toward the exhibits, motioning for me to follow. “The museum closes at five, so we have a lot of awesomely creepy things to see in the next ninety minutes.”

  We start with microscope slides of Einstein’s temporal lobe, and then we move on to the Hyrtl Skull collection, 139 human skulls. Oliver looks enthralled by it all, but I can’t shake the feeling that 278 black eye sockets are staring out at me. I’m relieved when we move on, down a flight of steps, into a new room.

  But I shouldn’t be, because it only gets more unsettling. Jarred fetuses. Massive cysts. Shrunken heads. I keep moving and skim through most of the displays, focusing on the text, not the visuals, as Oliver pores over every last jar and mounted skeleton. He seems especially entranced by a large gangrenous foot.

  What feels like hours later we’re finally headed back up the stairs, the gift shop safely in sight, when—

  “The Soap Lady,” Oliver calls out from behind me. “Just like I remember her!”

  I turn to see him standing over something that resembles a coffin. The Soap Lady is lying behind a red velvet curtain, her display set up like a viewing at a funeral home. The room seems quieter than the rest of the museum, too quiet. My skin prickles.

  “Come see!” He waves me forward, and I pause for a beat before moving toward him. I don’t want to see her, not really, but this is science. Real life.

  I step up next to Oliver and look down, squeezing my hands into fists.

  The woman—she does look like a mummy. Black and stony like charcoal, caught in a tortured pose: her face contorted, mouth gaping open, like she’s forever stuck mid-scream. There are holes where her nose once was, her eyes. I could almost believe that she’s just an old, dirty statue, some grotesque work of ancient art—not a real human being, never a real human being—except there are strands of hair matted along the side of her head. Brown maybe, or strawberry blond, it’s hard to say. The last bit of life that still clings to her.

  Is this what my mom looks like now?

  As soon as I think the words, I feel vomit rise up my throat and start to back away. I think of the pictures of her I’ve seen, that curly dark hair just like mine, the warm, happy smile. I think about my beautiful mother morphed into this terrible monster of a corpse, any last remaining curls rotting off her head.

  Oliver wraps an arm around me and I let myself fall against him, focusing my energy into not throwing up all over the pristine tiled museum floor. In a minute he’s led us outside and is setting me down on a wooden bench.

  “God, I’m so sorry, Thistle. I knew how bad my nightmares were, I should never have made you look. It’s freaky to see death like this. To remember the Soap Lady was a real person once. It really gets in your head.”

  “I’m fine—” I try to say, but the words catch in my throat. When I close my eyes I can’t stop seeing her face, my mom’s face, a horrific, twisted amalgam of the two together.

  I force my eyes open. We’re in a sunny garden. Out of hell, into the light. It’s cold out here, but I don’t mind. The cold is good. I feel more alive.

  “What is this place?” I ask.

  “A medicinal plant garden. I remembered it from last time. Seemed like the best bet.”

  We’re both quiet for a minute. I’m pretending to study the placards noting the many different varieties of herbs all around us: thyme and sage and Lady’s Mantle. The back brick walls are covered in columns of ivy, and trees and bushes block us from the street. A plane rumbles overhead, but otherwise I could believe we’re in our own bubble away from everything and everyone. Like this garden was put here specifically to be our refuge.

  “What happened in there, Thistle?” Oliver asks, the words soft, gentle.

  “The Soa—” I stop myself. I can’t bring myself to even say the name. “She made me think about my mom. In a coffin. It’s stupid, I know. I don’t remember her funeral, and the two have nothing to do with each other, but…” I shrug.

  “That’s not stupid.” He reaches out and wraps his fingers around mine. His hand is solid and warm and everything that I need right now, even if I shouldn’t.

  “I think I have the opposite view of death,” he says, keeping his eyes steady on mine, barely even blinking. I don’t blink either. “I like to remind myself of it so that it seems less scary. Make it more just a part of everyday life, so it’s less shocking when it actually happens, if that makes sense.” He pauses, squeezes my hand tighter. I squeeze back. “I was with my grandma when she died. I was twelve. We were in the kitchen together, making her famous corned beef—she grew up in Ireland—and she said she felt faint, and then…I was glad I was there, but I hated it, too. I hated that I was stuck with that as my final memory of her forever.”

  “What’s worse, no memory at all, or a shitty memory?” I ask, even though the answer is obvious.

  “I want to remember everything,” he says.

  We’re both quiet for a minute, but it’s an okay quiet now. Peaceful.

  “I really do love gardens,” I say, smiling as I look out over the courtyard, even though most of the plants are long gone for the winter. I can picture what summer must look like from this bench. “I’ve thought about going to college for botany, maybe.”

  “I guess English would be a waste of time for you, huh?” He smiles at first, but then he cocks his head, his eyes squinting down at me. “I figured you were going to be an author forever. Would you be going just to get the college experience? Or to do botany as a hobby?”

  “I’m not sure I want to settle on one definition of myself at this point. What if there’s something more than writing? I hope there is.” There has to be.

  “And I hope I grow up to be even half as interesting as you are right now. You definitely don’t need me to tell you this, because it’s so obvious but—you’re pretty special.”

  I
want to soak in the words, loop them over and over and memorize the exact sound, the exact weight of them, so I can replay this moment always. But I don’t deserve to feel proud. I don’t deserve much of anything.

  Oliver must sense that his words didn’t have the desired effect, because he lets go of my hand and stands up from the bench. “So how about we go get some doughnuts and hot chocolate, blow out of this death hole? My blood is starting to freeze.”

  “Sounds perfect,” I say, jumping up beside him.

  Oliver starts asking me about what plants I grow, how long I’ve liked gardening, and suddenly we’re out of the museum, away from the Soap Lady. We sit at a nearby café talking until Oliver’s mom calls, telling him he needs to get home for dinner. I’m loopy from the six brown sugar–coated cider doughnuts we split and a huge mug of foamy hot chocolate. Loopy, I tell myself, from the sugar overload. Nothing more.

  That night, when Liam comes over and kisses me and asks about my day, I don’t tell him about the Soap Lady or the medicinal-plant garden or the best cider doughnuts I’ve ever had.

  I lie. Again. Maybe it’s an addiction now. Maybe this is who I am. Liam would be right to judge me. Because instead of the truth, I tell him that I got loads of work done.

  That I’m even closer to being finished. For good.

  * * *

  I knock on my dad’s door after Liam leaves.

  “Hey,” I say quietly, anxiously, as I push open the door. No response. He’s sitting up in his wheelchair, his back turned to me. Sleeping, I assume. I tiptoe over to check, afraid to jolt him awake, but when I step in front of him I see that his eyes are wide open, clearer and more alert than they’ve been for a while.

  “How are you feeling?” I sit on the edge of his bed and lean in close, but not too close.

  “Terrible.” He sighs. “Physically terrible to start. The occupational therapist came by today and I felt useless. But emotionally, I’m—I’m not so great either. I keep thinking about how much I’m failing you, and I can’t stand it.”

  “That’s not true,” I say, even if it is. I look at him, really look at him, for the first time in days. He’s lost some weight—which would be a good thing ordinarily, if it was attributed to green smoothies or laps around the block, fewer parakeet-shaped cookies. But it’s too much, too fast, and his face looks pale and thin and saggy.

  “It seems like you’ve been pretty busy, though? You haven’t been around much lately.”

  “Yeah, some new friends. A fan I met at my reading at the bookstore, actually.”

  “Oh,” he says, his mouth twisting downward. “Marigold. Did you see the e-mail we got from Elliot this afternoon?”

  I shake my head. I hadn’t checked the e-mail on my laptop since before I’d met up with Oliver.

  “Well, he loves the chapters he’s read, but he said he really must have the rest of the pages next Friday. He suggested he come to Philly in the next few days to help you hash through anything that’s left to do and start talking about edits. Susan was invited to join in, too.”

  “What?” The room spins in front of me. “No. No way. They can’t come here.”

  “I know.” He sighs again. “I called Elliot as soon as I read the e-mail. I said that you would be much better left to your own devices—can’t mess with genius—but that it’s imperative you’re given more time. I told him I’d been distracting you. It was my fault.”

  “And…?” I ask.

  “He said he has to have the chapters next week. Martin Davis is breathing fire down his neck. He’s insisting on the visit.”

  My breath hitches. “You were so sure you could get more time.”

  “I know, Thistle. I tried with Susan then, too, and I got the same story. I don’t—I don’t know what to do. I’m beating myself up about it, trust me.”

  “Well, luckily I’m working on a potential solution.” My heart is pounding. It’s my dad, I shouldn’t be nervous, but—this is it, my chance.

  “Oh?” He raises both eyebrows.

  “I’ve been outlining the ending for you. It’s not exactly how you envisioned it, but I think it’ll work. I think it’s how it should be. Maybe if I share that with Elliot first, we can—”

  “Sweetie,” Dad says, interrupting me, “I appreciate that you’re trying to help. I do. And I don’t mean this to be offensive, but…I have to be the one to write it. There’s just too much riding on these last chapters. You’re a great second in command. The best. But this is too important. And the ending needs to stay the way I’ve envisioned it. It’s the only way.”

  I stand up. I need space. “But I don’t get it. You’re telling me there’s no more time. And you’re also telling me that you can’t write it yet, but you’re the only one who can write it, period. So where does that leave us? Where does it leave me? How can I have a meeting with Elliot and Susan if I don’t have anything to show them?”

  He scowls up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “Let me keep thinking about it. I’ll figure something out.”

  “I don’t think either of us believes that.” I don’t recognize my voice. It’s cold. Empty.

  He’s silent for a moment, and I turn toward the door.

  “Maybe,” he starts, and then pauses, breathing heavily. “Maybe we shouldn’t have done it.”

  These are words that, before, I would have felt so satisfied to hear. So vindicated. But it’s too little too late. His regrets do no good now.

  “Maybe we should tell them the truth, Thistle.”

  “And then what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  * * *

  I throw myself onto the bed, yank the blankets high up over my head. I want to sleep for the next few weeks, erase myself from everything that’s happening.

  My phone rings, vibrating next to me on the bed. I check it even though I don’t want to. Liam. It stops for a beat. Rings again. I pick it up this time.

  “Hey,” I say, sniffling and gasping into the phone.

  “Thistle? What’s wrong?”

  “Everything. Same as always. My dad. Susan. Elliot. This goddamned book. Susan and Elliot want to come to Philly to help me, and I don’t know if I can do it. If I can keep pretending.” I’m babbling, words flowing as quickly as the tears.

  “What can I do?”

  “Nothing, Li. It’s all on me. It’s my mess. I just need you to be here for me.”

  “I was calling to say good night, but I can sneak out if you want? Come back over?”

  “It’s okay.” I take a shaky breath, trying to pull myself together. “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow.” He sighs. “I have a water polo game, but I’ll come over when I get back. I just wish…”

  “Me too.”

  “Good night, Thistle.”

  “Good night, Li.”

  thirteen

  If Colton was curious about why Marigold had stayed away from the Afterworld for a week, he didn’t ask. He just looked relieved when she found him, swimming laps in the Purple Pool—and surprised when she leaned over the edge for a kiss. He grinned when she pulled away. “I guess you missed me, huh?”

  They lounged, legs touching, on the fake blue grass surrounding the pool.

  “Remember Finley?” Colton asked. “My bunk mate who told you about dying in a boating accident? His one-year anniversary was yesterday, and he just disappeared. It’ll be my anniversary in a few months…”

  Marigold turned to him, heart thudding. There was too much about the Afterworld that neither of them understood. There were whispers about what happened next, that kids “moved up” after their first year—though no one knew how it happened or what “up” would be like.

  And Colton’s anniversary meant it was also her mom’s anniversary, and she’d probably move up from wherever she was.

  “We’ve never been able to find a w
ay to the upper floors,” Marigold said. “Maybe this is as far as I can go. Maybe I won’t see Mom again. Maybe I’ll lose you forever, too.”

  —EXCERPT FROM LEMONADE SKIES, BOOK 2: BETWEEN TWO WORLDS

  Emma isn’t there at the Flynns’ house the next day either.

  But this time, she’s not just at an appointment. She’s back in the hospital. Oliver had waited for me to get to their house so we could go visit her together.

  “What happened?” I ask from the passenger seat of his old black Jetta, my palms hot and slick against my jeans. I don’t want to go back to the hospital.

  “It’s another flare-up,” he says, his jawline rigid as he stares out over the steering wheel. “Maybe it’s fine, but I don’t know. She might need surgery. Medication’s more of a temporary fix at this point.”

  “What kind of surgery?” I should have wondered, worried about Emma more since my first visit, googled Crohn’s so I could talk about it without sounding like a total neophyte. She’d pretended she was fine, so I’d pretended she was fine, too.

  “I’m not sure, really. I know they’ve talked about an ileostomy as a kind of worst-case procedure—that’s when they make an opening in the stomach and they bring the end of the small intestine to form a stoma…”

  He continues talking, but I can barely keep up, the terms are all so foreign to me. Emma might have to use an exterior pouch to collect her digestive waste. I understand that much.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say when he finally goes quiet. I’m the one who reaches out to squeeze his hand this time.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” He glances at me for a moment before turning back to the road. His hair is messier than usual today, scraggly strands pulled up into a loose bun. “My parents are difficult to communicate with during times like this. They shut off and go to this entirely different place, where nothing exists but Emma and what needs to be done next. Step one, two, three. Which is fine, they should be thinking just about Emma, but it’s hard sometimes, being in total action mode and not being able to talk about how I’m feeling, too.” He cringes, his lips wrinkling up in disgust. “Ugh. Gross. That must sound so incredibly selfish. I’m the worst.”