I thought I was getting better. I’d promised myself I was. I’d promised your dad, too. I’m still crying now, making a total mess of this letter. What am I going to do?
Forgive me, Thistle. Please. Because I’m not sure I can ever forgive myself.
That’s the end.
Those are the last words from my mom that I will ever have: I’m not sure I can ever forgive myself. We have one thing in common at least. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive her either.
nineteen
Colton was there, waiting for her. She opened her mouth, Jonah’s name—the truth—on her lips, but before she could speak, Colton said: “We’re all together after the first year, but cliques tend to form around ages and death dates, so I think—based on that and the photo you showed me—I’ve found her.” And then he led Marigold to a luminescent tunnel she’d never seen before, up glimmering spiraling stairs. Into a high-vaulted room filled with music and flowers and people. A party.
And across the crowd, Marigold saw her—Violet. Mom.
“Mom!” Marigold shouted, but the chatter stole her words away. Colton hoisted her onto his back and started plowing through the crowd.
“See, football wasn’t a waste. Couldn’t have done this with Debate Club!”
“Shut up and move faster!” Marigold waved her hands above her head as they ran, closer and closer until—
“Shoot,” Colton said, “she’s headed toward that door.”
“Violet Maybee!” Marigold yelled as loud as she could, her throat burning.
Her mom stopped and turned. Their eyes met, locked in place.
And Marigold felt like she was finally home.
—EXCERPT FROM LEMONADE SKIES, BOOK 2: BETWEEN TWO WORLDS
I open my eyes to bright white light pouring in through my window. The sunshine feels good, merry and pleasant and the opposite of everything else in my life.
For a few seconds I wonder if I’d maybe dreamed it all. But then I glance down at the floor, see the sheets of paper scattered around like remarkably uncelebratory confetti. I’d dumped the letters there last night after I finished reading through them for the fifth time. I’d contemplated tearing them to shreds and flushing them down the toilet—I came close, ripping the last letter nearly in half, before some shrill voice in my head screamed: No! Thistle, stop! This is all you and Dad have now.
I hadn’t left my room since yesterday’s conversation with Dad. I should be starving now, but my stomach feels like it’s shriveled into a particle of dust.
Before bed last night I sorted through the rest of the contents of the box: photos of Dad and Mom at their wedding, photos of Mom pregnant, of Mom and newborn me, Mom and toddler me. There was some jewelry, too: a slightly green-tinged golden locket with my dad’s much-younger face on one half of the heart, mine on the other, grinning big through my chubby baby cheeks; a charm bracelet with one lone pendant, the outline of a pigtailed girl; and a plain gold wedding band and a sparkly yellow sapphire engagement ring. At least I assume it’s her engagement ring, because it’s the only other ring there. Jammed at the very bottom of the box I found some ticket stubs to concerts and movies I’ve never heard of, a few seashells, a pinkish heart-shaped pebble, a package of Junior Mints that no doubt expired sometime during the past fourteen years.
And that’s it—the full list.
That’s what I have left of my mom to tide me over for the rest of my life.
I wish now that I’d read the letters gradually instead of devouring them whole. I could have read one a week, picked each apart carefully to be sure I wasn’t missing anything important. Absorbed the bad news more slowly, savored each gem of good that I could find.
Or maybe it’s for the best that it’s over. That my illusions were stripped away all at once. Because that’s the worst part of this: the reality that my vision for all these years was so wrong, that the towering pedestal I’d placed my mom on had been part of some silly childish fantasy. It was make-believe, coloring in my world in the way that made me feel happiest.
I’d missed her, always, but I’d missed my perfectly conceived version of her—the golden mom who would have baked elaborate birthday cupcakes even before Pinterest was a thing. The mom who would have encouraged me to play the violin, or the flute, or the drums, whatever I wanted to play; to take ballet, sign up for soccer, join the swim team. She would have believed I was capable of anything, and she would have shown up at every recital or game, even if it meant skipping a meeting at whatever high-powered job she would have been juggling on the side. I would have been her number one, always. I would have filled her heart with a joy so sparkly and bright that she couldn’t even remember how existence was possible before I landed in her arms.
I don’t know where Mom belongs now. I know—deep down I know, I do—that it’s not really her fault. She didn’t ask for her depression. I’m sure it wasn’t the life she would have chosen for herself, if biology had given her a say. But staying angry feels like my best shot at survival right now. I’m mad at my mom for not magically fixing herself, for being too proud to ask for help sooner. Mad at my dad, too, for keeping these secrets for so long—and mad that he hadn’t found a way to rescue her somehow before she got as low as she did.
What do I do today? Where do I go? Who do I talk to?
Nothing, nowhere, no one.
Emma’s surgery should have happened yesterday. I’ve been too busy pitying myself to worry about her. Because I am a terribly self-centered human being. Maybe after she’s had time to process and recover I’ll write her a short e-mail, thank her for everything and remind her that she’s better off without me and Marigold.
I wonder how Oliver is holding up. I wonder if he’s thought about me at all.
I wonder how long it’ll take to stop wondering these things.
As much as I want to avoid the Internet, it’s all I have right now. I check my in-box because I’m masochistic and can’t stop myself. There’s another few hundred e-mails since yesterday. The subject lines are filled with angry words. I don’t click on any of them because I already know what they’ll say, and it’s nothing worse than what I’m already thinking about myself. I do a search to make sure there’s nothing new from Oliver or Emma. Nope. Of course there’s not. Nothing from Liam either. I don’t know if I’m more relieved or disappointed that he hasn’t tried to reach out, not that it would change anything.
And then, because I’m already on a vicious downward trajectory, I google Oliver Flynn. There must be some photos, some tweets, some snippet of him that I can hoard for myself. The first thing that pops up, though, is an article in his high school newspaper about a writing scholarship he won last month. Five hundred dollars, and his short story will be reprinted in a collection with those of other talented high school students from across the country. He never mentioned it, probably because he thought it was nothing compared to the millions of copies of Lemonade Skies books out in the world. This was small change, comparatively.
Except his was real. His was earned.
I wallow, clicking through all the pictures of him I can find on social media. He has a lot more friends than I would have expected, given how available he was to spend time with me. They look friendly. Normal. Like people I would have wanted to meet, if I’d had more time. There’s one picture in particular that I can’t stop looking at: Oliver and two guys, two girls, baking for some kind of fund-raiser. They’re in the Flynns’ kitchen, and there’s flour in their hair, flour on their faces, but they look so happy in the mess, arms around one another, mid-laugh when the flash went off. One of the girls, a pretty blonde with very pink lips, is leaning against Oliver’s shoulder, grinning up at him instead of at the camera.
I will never know what these high school moments are like—big laughing friend groups, people who have known you since kindergarten, who have witnessed the most embarrassing bits of
your history and still love you anyway. Even if I come around eventually, an awkward late bloomer, I’ll have missed these years. I’ll never get them back.
After I’ve scraped up every last picture of Oliver on the Internet, it’s time to admit defeat. My stomach is howling at me and for the first time in my life the idea of more chocolate makes me feel ill.
It’s quiet downstairs—safe. Even Lucy must be sleeping. I step into the kitchen, mind completely focused on the egg-and-cheese sandwich I’m going to make, the one thing that might help me feel better right now.
“Thistle.”
I spin around, my hands clutching at my chest. “Dad, Jesus Christ! You scared me.” My dad, out of his bedroom. It’s so unexpected that all I can do is stand and stare, openmouthed.
“I’m sorry,” he says, fighting back a smile. “I’ve been waiting down here all morning. I knew you’d give up the hunger strike at some point and sneak into the kitchen.”
“It’s—it’s good to see you moving around.”
“Mia’s been pushing me to be less of a disgusting sloth for days. And Melissa, my occupational therapist, was here this morning, too, and she gave me some exercises to do. I can’t be up on crutches until these slings are off in a few weeks, but I want to be around more. I need to do better. For you.”
“It’s a little late now, isn’t it?”
He sighs, deflating into the wheelchair. “I am so sorry, and I’d redo everything if I could. The books, the fame, all of it. I’d have sent you off to school to make friends. I’d have pushed you to join the band or the choir or sports teams or the theater—I’d have chaperoned on field trips, hosted big sleepovers here with your friends, even if I would have been the bumbling, clueless single dad. I’d have given you all the normal things you deserve. Maybe I would have written a book with my name on it that would have sold. Or maybe you would have grown up to be a writer yourself, been a big success in your own right. Maybe some of those things can still happen, I don’t know. You still have a wide-open future in front of you. But I am sorry.”
“I would never have grown up to be a writer,” I say, ignoring the rest, the apologies I can’t stand to hear. “I mean, I have no shot now that my name will be blacklisted from the world of publishing for good, but—I am not a writer.”
Dad looks at me, eyebrows drawing into one long fuzzy line. “Why do you say that?”
“Why would I not say that? I didn’t write a word of Lemonade Skies, in case you forgot. I suggested a few things that made it into the story, but even most of my ideas were vetoed.”
“You had hugely constructive input. And you nitpicked at every single sentence I wrote. You made me streamline and stay true to the voice. You’re seventeen years old, Thistle. And you’ve had a hand in two bestselling books. Don’t downplay your role. It wasn’t nothing.”
“Yeah. Whatever you say.” I turn away toward the fridge, back to my initial project, eggs and cheese.
“I don’t expect you to take my word for it, not right now. All I’m saying is: Don’t rule it out. Don’t let me ruin the whole writing thing for you.”
“Well, given that no decent college will probably take me at this point, I don’t see an English major or any majors in my near future.”
He’s quiet for a minute, and I revel in the small joy of shocking him into silence.
“You haven’t applied yet,” he says finally. “There’s still time to strategize. The story will fade, schools won’t recognize your name—”
“I’m the most recognizable cheater in the country right now, Dad. I couldn’t even run away to Australia or England, they’ll know me, too.”
“We’ll figure something out. It’ll be fine.”
Fine. It’s meaningless—everything he says. I’m done listening to it. I’m done letting him feel better about himself.
“No, Dad, I’ll figure something out. You just figure yourself out, okay? You’ve already ruined my life. Don’t you get that? You can’t fix anything for me. You’re a total disaster.”
My dad jerks back in his chair. I’d sounded colder than I intended—it’s maybe the meanest thing I’ve ever said to him. But I don’t regret it. He doesn’t get to pick and choose when to be Supportive Dad. Life doesn’t work that way.
“I’m going to Dottie’s,” I announce, because I can’t bear to be in this house with him.
“Thistle, please—” he calls out, but I’m already halfway down the hall.
I don’t turn back before slamming the door behind me.
* * *
Dottie—I’m getting better at calling her that—seems only moderately surprised to see me again so soon.
She insists I eat a sandwich first, tuna with cheese and pickles, when I admit I haven’t eaten real food in what feels like days and I’m starting to feel dizzy. It tastes like the best tuna sandwich I’d ever had in my life. I finish every crumb and then shovel a few cookies into my mouth—chocolate and bright pink sprinkles today, another interesting variation. And then I tell her about Mom, the letters, my fight with Dad. She’s silent the whole time I ramble on, nodding and nibbling at cookies.
“I feel so guilty,” she says after I finish, frowning as she puts down her cup of black cherry tea. “I should have been a better neighbor. I should have talked to her when she came around, I should have helped her more with you.”
There are so many more questions I want to ask, more about Mom as a kid, but my head is already too heavy with new knowledge. I linger longer than socially appropriate for an unannounced teatime, probably, but I can’t stand the idea of going home. I consider asking her if I can stay here tonight, but even with our new buddy bond it feels too weird. And I’m not sure I could ever sleep with all those puppies and kitties staring down at me from the walls.
My dad is in the hallway when I come back in, like he’s been waiting for me all this time.
“I’m glad you and Dottie are hitting it off,” he says casually, as if we didn’t have a massive blowup a few hours before. “Your mom always did worry about her.”
“Well, I have no one else these days, so I figured why not? Lose one neighbor, gain another.” I start toward the stairs.
“I talked to Susan while you were gone.”
I turn back to him. “And?”
“She said Elliot and Zenith are still figuring out how to handle things. I think as much as they hate our guts, they’re wondering if there’s a way they can spin it that would get even more sales for this last book. Or if it’s better to quit now, save face, make the whole story blow over sooner. She said it’s maybe a good fifty-fifty chance right now.”
“They…would maybe want to publish the book still?” This possibility had never once occurred to me in the last few days. We were done. Lemonade Skies was over. For good.
“Maybe.” He shakes his head. “We’ll see.”
“Right.”
“I’m going to try, Thistle. To be better. For you. For me. For both of us.”
“Okay.”
“Because you’re right, I’ve been a giant mess, and I’ve had my pity party long enough.”
I feel too numb to respond. My feelings are too complicated. I’m relieved he’s holding himself up mentally and emotionally, but I’m tired of having to worry about that in the first place. I don’t run right back up to my room though. I settle on the couch, and Dad rolls in behind me, and without discussion we’re back to Sherlock. We order Thai food a few hours later, and Mia pulls up a TV tray and eats next to me. Maybe she doesn’t hate both of us.
It doesn’t feel normal, but it feels better than the last few days. I’m too weak to fight it. Hiding out in my bedroom, rotting away in loneliness—like Dottie said, it’s not a sustainable plan. But just because I watch some TV and eat food in the same room doesn’t mean Dad’s forgiven or that we’re okay again. It means that I need someone to keep me fr
om imploding with misery, and—for better or for worse—Dad is the only real someone I have. He’s my only family.
We’ve both hurt people. We’ve both made mistakes.
Like father like daughter.
* * *
I’ve been in bed for hours, but I can’t sleep.
I keep hearing Dad’s words from this afternoon, as much as I want to write them off as meaningless obligatory groveling: Don’t downplay your role. It wasn’t nothing.
Is that at all true? Do I have at least some basic writing skills? Maybe that rush I felt working on the outline was something real—something rare and golden. Or maybe it was just a garbage fantasy fueled by my need to feel productive. Either way, there’s only that fifty percent chance there will even be a third book. There’s no point in working on it more until we know.
But still…
I hop out of bed and open my laptop, find the document that’s now buried in layers of folders to prevent myself from doing the exact thing I’m doing right now. If I’d been serious about never seeing it again, I would have deleted it. But I hadn’t.
The document flashes open, and my eyes scan hungrily, possessively over the words and ideas I wrote just last week, though last week feels like months ago now.
Suddenly, I know exactly what Colton should say in his final scene. I jot it down before I forget, and just like that, I can see, feel, hear how Marigold will approach her mom, how their last conversation will go. It’s like I’m standing there watching and listening, and my hands are flying over the keyboard so that I don’t miss a thing.
From that scene on, the rest fits in easily, until there’s just one thing left to be done:
Send Marigold home from the Afterworld.
twenty
It takes me a week.
The Undoing of Thistle Tate Page 20
