Hallowed

by Cynthia Hand

  I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t involve me bursting into tears.

  Tucker clears his throat. “How are you doing?”

  “Right now? I’ve been better.”

  “No I mean—” He sighs. “God, I’d forgotten how frustrating you can be.”

  It’s an insult, but it comes with a begrudging smile, the admiration in his eyes that sends me back to those days when we used to drive each other crazy.

  “And I’d forgotten what a rude hick you can be,” I throw in for good measure.

  “Ouch.” He shows his dimples this time. My heart aches, wanting to make everything better between us again. It must show on my face because his expression suddenly sobers. He steps closer to me, puts his hand on my arm.

  “So I take it you’re still going to Stanford this fall?”

  “Yep,” I say without enthusiasm. “Go Cardinals.”

  “But you’re going to be around this summer, right?”

  The look on his face is suddenly hopeful, and the summer we could have together unrolls itself in my mind, something like that magical time last summer when I was falling for Tucker hard, falling for Wyoming and all its wonders. I wish we could live it all over again, those lazy days fishing on the lake, hiking up into the mountains to pick huckleberries, swimming the Hoback River, rafting the Snake, marking each place with a kiss or a touch, making it ours. But this time I know it’s not meant to be. Because we can never go back.

  I glance down at our feet, my strappy white sandals, Tucker’s boots. “No. Billy thought it would be a good idea if I got away this summer, you know, away from all the sad stuff.”

  “Sounds like a good plan,” he says quietly.

  “So I’m going to Italy with Angela.”

  “When?”

  “Monday.” As in, the day after tomorrow. I’ve already packed.

  He nods like it’s something he should have expected. “Well. Maybe that’s for the best.”

  Silence.

  “I’ll be back for a couple weeks right before school starts. You’ll be here then, right?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Okay.”

  He looks up at me, his blue eyes so mournful it makes my heart feel like it’s being squeezed.

  “How about tomorrow? Are you free?”

  Sometimes the word free can have so many meanings.

  “Um, sure.”

  “Then pick me up tomorrow morning,” he says. “We’ll go out one last time.”

  Even now, I can’t say no to that.

  Tucker decided it would be nice to take me to the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, not so grand as the real Grand Canyon, he said, but close. There’s a place where you can stand on the brink of a waterfall that he said I would love. (I did.) On the way home from the Lazy Dog, after dropping Tucker off, I have to stop and pull over. I want to go back, I want the afternoon to last forever, but all I have is the memory and already it’s fading. So I sit in my car on the side of the road and I remember him looking at me as we stood against the railing on the edge of the waterfall, the water casting rainbows in the air around us, and him saying, “Oh man, I want to kiss you,” and me saying, “Okay.”

  Then he looked deep into my eyes, and put his lips on mine. It was the sweetest kind of kiss in the world, intense but undemanding, gentle. But it sent a roar of feeling through me louder than the torrent of water dropping away under our feet.

  I opened my heart to his. I felt what he felt coursing through me. He loves me so much that this was killing him, the way this kiss felt like good-bye. He never wanted to let me go. He wanted to fight for me. Every part of him was telling him to fight, but he didn’t know how. He thought maybe the purest form of love is letting me go.

  My own heart soared, feeling that, knowing that he still loves me, in spite of everything that’s happened. I struggled to hold the glory at bay, because it wanted to fill me, wanted to shine out with all that I was feeling in that moment.

  Then, too soon, much too soon, he pulled away. Stepped back.

  Wait, I wanted to tell him as he turned and walked back up the trail. Come back here.

  And I could’ve convinced him, I think, not to let this be good-bye. I could’ve told him that I wanted him to fight for me. That I love him too. But something inside me was whispering that he was right, when yesterday he said this is for the best. Tucker deserves something better than I can give him. He deserves a regular human girl, one like Allison Lowell. He deserves happiness.

  So I let him head off, and we drove back to his house in silence, trying to convince ourselves that we’re doing the right thing, for both of us.

  Dad’s waiting for me on the front porch when I get home. He stands up as I pull into the driveway.

  “Don’t get out,” he says. “There’s somewhere I’d like to go with you.”

  I slide back into my seat and unlock the door for him. He gets in on the passenger’s side and fastens his seat belt. I get this weird sensation like I’m back in Driver’s Ed, nervous, because I don’t know what he wants. All this mixed with his own special cocktail of joy.

  “Okay, where to?” I ask.

  “Let’s go toward town.”

  “Okay.” I drive. I don’t know what to say to him. The last time I saw him was at graduation, but he didn’t stick around after. We didn’t get the chance to talk. And before that it was him sitting on Mom’s bed as she died. I have so many things swirling in my brain right now, questions, mostly, but it feels weird to ask.

  Like: Is she okay? Where did she go, exactly? Were you with her this whole time? What’s it like, where she is? Does she miss me? Can she hear me, if I try to talk to her? Is she watching over me?

  I’m driving too slow. The car behind me honks, swerves to pass me, narrowly missing an oncoming car.

  “Crazy California drivers,” I say, gesturing to the guy’s CA license plates before he screeches off. “Always in such a rush.”

  When we get to town Dad has me turn off on the road to Grand Teton National Park. It’s a road I’ve been down a million times before with Tucker.

  “How much will we need for admission into the park?” Dad asks.

  “I’ve got it, Dad. I have a season pass.”

  Dad looks pleased, like he’s proud to have produced a kid with a respectful appreciation of nature. We come around a long, curving corner, and suddenly the mountains open up in front of us, washed in red and gold. The sun has just gone down behind them. Soon it will be dark.

  “Right here,” he instructs as we approach a scenic turnout. “Pull over.”

  Obediently I turn in and park. We get out of the car. I follow Dad as he takes a few steps past the paved part of the road, into the tall grass. He stares off at the mountains.

  “Beautiful,” he says. “I’ve never seen them from this angle before. It’s quite something, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty, Dad.” But I’m confused. Why would he want to come here?

  He turns to me with an arched eyebrow. “Patience is not your strong suit, is it?”

  Heat rushes to my face. “I guess not. Sorry. I just thought you had plans, or somewhere you wanted me to see. I’ve kind of seen this before.”

  “You haven’t seen this,” he says. “We’re not there yet.”

  Before I have time to process this, he puts a hand on my back, right below the nape of my neck. Something shifts around us, like a quick change in air pressure. My ears pop. I get the sudden sensation of lifting, the kind you feel when an elevator starts to rise, followed by a rush of light-headedness. Then I notice that there’s something different about the color of the grass; it’s greener than it was a second ago. I look up at the mountains, and I notice a difference there too, in the light, where before it was fading, night falling on the land, shadows starting across the plains that stretch to the foothills, now the shadows are receding. The air is growing brighter.

  It’s almost like a perpetual daybreak. The sun didn’t just go down.
It’s coming up.

  I sway dizzily, almost fall, like I just stepped off a merry-go-round. I clutch at Dad’s arm.

  “Are you all right?” he asks. “It might be better if you hang on to me until you regain your equilibrium.”

  I take a deep breath. The air is almost heavy in its sweetness, like green grass and clover, a hint of something I recognize as the smell of clouds. To say it’s beautiful here, wonderfully, impossibly beautiful, wouldn’t do it justice. I turn to Dad.

  “This is heaven,” I say. No question; I know. Maybe the angel part of me recognizes it. I can’t help the giddy feeling that floods me. Heaven.

  “The edge of it, yes,” Dad says.

  No longer dizzy, I let go of his arm. I try to take a few steps away from him, but there’s something strange about the grass under my feet. It’s too hard. My feet don’t sink into it or crush it down. I stumble and look back at Dad.

  “What’s wrong with the grass?”

  “It’s not the grass,” he says. “It’s you. You’re not meant to be here yet. You’re still not solid enough for this plain, but if you were to walk in that direction”—he nods toward the growing light in what, on earth, was due west but here seems a different direction entirely— “you’d grow more solid with every step, until you reached the mountains.”

  “What would happen when I reached the mountains?”

  “Well, that’s for you to find out when the time comes,” he says mysteriously.

  “You mean when I die.”

  He doesn’t reply. He looks off toward those mountains and lifts a hand to point. “I brought you here to see.”

  I squint toward the light, shielding my eyes with my hand, and then my breath catches. I can make out the figure of a person out there. A woman in a white, calf-length, sleeveless dress. It looks like the eyelet sundress I wore under my gown at graduation yesterday. She has her back turned to us, walking, almost running, it seems, toward the mountains. Her long auburn hair is flowing free down her back.

  “Mom,” I breathe. “Mommy!”

  I try to run toward her, but I can’t handle my feet on this stony grass. It hurts, like picking your way across a gravel road with bare feet. I only make it a few more steps before I give up, panting.

  “Mom!” I call again, but it’s clear she doesn’t hear me.

  Dad comes up beside me. “You can’t reach her, sweetheart, not now. I brought you here because I thought it would do you good to see her. But that’s all.”

  It’s not enough, I think, but it’s all I have. It’s a gift that he’s giving me, the best kind of present there is. Proof of my mother, that she is somewhere safe, and warm, and bright. That she still exists out there.

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  Dad holds out his hand, and I take it. Then together we stand and watch her, this ethereal figure who is my mother, making her way toward those high countries. She’s walking away from me for now, but she’s walking into the glory. Into the light.

  Acknowledgments

  This book was like riding a bucking bronco to write, and I couldn’t have held on without the help of so many good people.

  My first shout-out goes to Katherine Fausset. I am so fortunate to call you my agent, my cheerleader, my mental bodyguard, my expert on all things writerly, and my dear friend. Thank you for reminding me that the book moved you to tears (I will forever carry around the image of you sobbing on the couch and freaking out your husband), and that you believed in me, especially during those times when I was having a hard time believing in myself. You are the best. Seriously. The best.

  Big thanks to Farrin Jacobs, my editor, who pushed me past “good enough” into something I can truly be proud of and kept such a keen eye on how many times I used the word “just” (only one in this entire acknowledgment—aren’t you proud?). I also owe high fives to Catherine Wallace, for all your hard work and smart ideas, to my publicist, Marisa Russell, for taking such good care of me schedule-wise, and to the entire awesome team at HarperCollins, including Kate Jackson, Susan Katz, Melinda Weigel, Susan Jeffers, and Sasha Illingworth, who created another gorgeous shiny cover to match my first gorgeous shiny cover.

  Thank you to the students and staff at Jackson Hole High School, especially Principal Scott Crisp, Julie Stayner, and Lori Clark-Erickson, for welcoming me back to the school for round two of research and interviews. I appreciate how graceful and enthusiastic you were about this project from the beginning. Clara’s world truly came alive for me in the halls of JHHS.

  Thanks to my friends: Amy Yowell, Melissa Stockham, Kristin Naca, Robin Marushia, Joan Kremer, Wendy Johnston, and Lindsey Terrell, for being my biggest fans and supporters, each in your own way. Y’all make me feel so loved.

  Thanks to Shannon Fields (and Emily!), for taking such good care of my son and for so often being the real-person, adult conversation I had at the end of the day. I needed that.

  Thanks to my family:

  My dad, Rodney Hand, for listening to all my problems and then gently reminding me that I had problems other people would kill for. And for taking Will on long tractor rides so I could work.

  Julie Hand, for being so eager to read the latest drafts and giving me such insightful, honest feedback, even though you worried that I’d be furious.

  Carol Ware, my mom, for being my Idaho publicist and for always being there when I needed you. I don’t know how I would have survived this year without your help. Maggie is a great mother, but she ain’t got nothing on you!

  Jack Ware, for being my mom’s knight in shining armor, the epitome, in my mind, of a good husband and a good man. Thanks for all the support, the sound tax advice, and always being so eager to help on any level you could.

  My own husband, John Struloeff. I said it all last time, but I have to say it again. You are one amazing, talented man, and I’d be lost without you. I’m so glad that you assigned yourself to me all those years ago, my partner and my friend.

  Will, my little man, for enduring so many movies so Mommy could work, for always making me laugh, and for reminding me of what’s important in life.

  And last but not least, Maddie. My sweet girl. Who was with me every moment I was writing this book, growing as it grew, through tears and edits and Braxton-Hicks contractions. Thank you for being a mellow baby who slept like a rock through all those signings and readings.

  About the Author

  CYNTHIA HAND divides her time between Southern California, where she lives with her husband and son, and southeast Idaho near the Teton Mountains. She teaches creative writing at Pepperdine University. You can visit her online at www.cynthiahand.blogspot.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Copyright

  Hallowed

  Copyright © 2012 by Cynthia Hand

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  * * *

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hand, Cynthia, 1978–

  Hallowed / by Cynthia Hand. — 1st ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Torn between her love for her boyfriend Tucker and her complicated feelings about the role she seems destined to play, sixteen-year-old part-angel Clara Gardner races to decipher a new vision that could signify the end for someone close to her.

  ISBN 978-0-06-199618-4

  [1. Angels—Fiction. 2. Visions—Fiction. 3. Supernatural— Fiction. 4. High schools—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Jackson (Wyo.)—Fiction.] I. Titl
e.

  PZ7.H1917Hal 2012

  [Fic]—dc23

  2011030444

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  First Edition

  EPub Edition © December 2011 ISBN: 9780062103475

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