Without Haylee to give us the details, there were no criminal charges, but accusations were enough to get him suspended from school sports pending investigation.
Word was, his parents were looking into private schools. Good riddance.
I spent lunches by the portables with Nick. Sometimes we talked and sometimes we didn't, but as the barrier between me and the rest of the world grew thinner, I could feel the bond between us growing stronger.
There was no funeral for Aaron, just a private, family burial. Nick was invited. His mom went, but he didn't. "I'll just be angry," he told me. "I don't want to be angry at anyone's funeral."
And I didn't try to change his mind. Instead, I held his hand.
The first weekend after the incident at the park, there was a knock on our door early in the morning. I was sitting in the kitchen, pouring myself juice, and I made it to the door before Mom did.
When I opened it, Hazel stood on our front steps. She looked up at me, her face gray. Sharp lines crossed her forehead and cheeks. I could swear they hadn't been there before.
Before either of us spoke, I heard footsteps behind me. "What are you doing here?" Mom asked. Her voice was cold.
"I'm sorry," Hazel said. "I'll go. I just came to bring you this." She pulled something out of her pocket. A package, wrapped in old newsprint.
A present from Haylee.
"She wrapped it before," Hazel said. "I put it in the closet with the others, because I didn't know what to do with it. But I thought . . . I thought you might want it."
I took it from her. "Thank you," I said.
I could feel Mom behind me, looming. I knew there were things she wanted to say, about how Hazel had endangered me, how Hazel not only failed to protect her own daughter, but sheltered a man who could have abused me, too.
But as I looked Hazel in the eye, I realized I didn't want Mom to say it. Hazel lost her daughter, and her husband, both in the same house. She'd been trying to save them, in her way. Now she had to live with her failure, just like I did. Only she knew the truth all along. She'd always know there was more she should have done.
Nothing Mom or I could say would be worse than living with that.
"Can I ask you a question?" I asked.
Hazel's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes," she said.
I spoke slowly, softly, like I was coaxing a frightened animal. "Did it really just happen when Haylee was six?"
Tears welled up in Hazel's red-rimmed eyes. "Yes," she said. "That's what Haylee told her therapist."
"Then why?" I asked. "Why kill himself now?"
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "He thought Haylee would get better," she said. "We both did."
And now there was no hope of that. And therefore no hope for him. Their failure was devastating.
"Why didn't you leave him?" I asked. She knew I'd been in her house. There were no secrets now. "Why not file the divorce papers until now?"
Hazel's voice shook as she answered. "I just," she said, "I just wanted everything to be fine."
She looked at me, and I saw the wide pit gaping open before her. I wanted to say something to keep it from swallowing her whole, but I couldn't.
There was nothing I could do to save her from the consequences of her silence.
She turned to go, and I stood in the doorway, watching her get into her car and drive away.
"That was kind of you," Mom said, "not to tell her what a monster she is." I heard the part Mom didn't say: kinder than I would have been.
I leaned against the doorway. "I don't want to hurt her. There's enough of that going around." And as I walked up to my room with the package, I realized I meant what I said.
I sat on my bed and lifted the tape. I shook the package, and a framed photo slid out onto my bed.
Two faces grinned up at me—Haylee's and mine. It was a dressing-room photo from the day we went shopping for Winter Fling dresses for Haylee's date with Bradley. Haylee must have printed and wrapped it that same day. I had on this totally ridiculous lime green prom dress with a pink flounce—a dress that made me look huge and hideous and which I would never pay money for in a million years. Haylee was wearing a low-cut silver number that really showed off her curves.
Soon after, she'd be wearing a coffin. And she didn't even leave me a note to say goodbye.
And that's when I knew, even before I looked. I flipped the frame over and slid out the cardboard backing.
There, on the back of the photo, was Haylee's loopy handwriting. She'd written our names and the date—the same day we went shopping. And below that I found the two most important sentences in the world. Kira, I love you, she'd written. You are the very best friend in the world. Tears welled up in my eyes, mostly because I knew it wasn't true. The best friend would have saved her. The best friend would have seen what I couldn't, and known what to do about it.
But Haylee loved the friend that she had. At least I got to hear that piece of the truth from her.
The next day was Sunday, and Mom agreed to let me go to the cemetery with Nick. We parked at the entrance and walked the long paths to her grave, my hand in his.
Haylee's spot was still unmarked. I'd come to the graveyard to find Haylee's ghost, but as we sat down in the grass at the foot of her grave, I knew she wasn't here. There was nothing here but dirt and stones, and a body she'd left behind. I thought I'd accepted that she wasn't coming back. How long would it take me to stop looking everywhere for her?
I picked a clover and rolled it between my fingers. I plucked another, then another. I hadn't made clover chains in years, but my fingers remembered how. Haylee and I had made hundreds of them, maybe thousands. In elementary school, the most tragic day of the week was Wednesday, after the grass was mowed, when we'd find all our flowers cut to pieces. But it only took them a few days to grow back.
"You didn't bring her any flowers," I said.
"Not today," Nick said. "We can bring some tomorrow."
"It's okay," I said. "She only liked flowers because she wanted to wear them in her hair."
I couldn't braid my hair as well as Haylee could. But I pulled a tendril away from my face and braided my clover chain into it, the white flowers shedding their tiny bladed petals onto my shoulders as I went. When I reached the back I secured it with an elastic, and then started up the other side so the two braids would meet at the back.
When I finished, Nick brushed wild hairs from my face, tucking them behind my ear. Haylee wouldn't have left strands loose like that. Her braids would be perfectly smooth. And though it's a stupid thing, it's one of a million that are gone from the world along with Haylee. My shoulders bowed under the weight of that.
Haylee was gone. And a part of me would always be sad about that.
But now, as Nick leaned in to kiss me, there was no rush of panic or of need, just the quiet, slow brushing of the breeze against my skin.
I kept my eyes open. I wanted to see.
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Acknowledgments
I wrote the first draft of this novel in 2004. Over the intervening ten years, it went through many different drafts. Because of the length of the process, it's impossible for me to thank everyone who critiqued this book by name. If I forget you, forgive me, and know that I appreciate your feedback, and your support. Thank you, thank you.
The first and most important thanks go to Kristy Kugler and Melody Fender. Kristy and Melody have not only been among my best friends, they have also been my loyal cheerleaders. Without Kristy's fabulous editing, th
is book would be much worse than it is—and indeed, would likely not exist. I feel truly honored to have a cover designed by Melody, who has always had a knack for making things beautiful. I love you girls. Thanks for believing in me.
Also Isaac Stewart—layout master, design guru—thank you for lending me your expertise. Without it, I would not have dared to attempt this book on my own. To Michelle Argyle and Sandra Tayler, thanks for all the advice about self-publishing, and for paving the way. Your courage is an example to many, most of all me.
Thank you to my agent, the incomparable Eddie Schneider, for his tireless work on this book, and on all my books. Seriously, Eddie. You do so much more than I could reasonably expect. Thank you.
Alaya Dawn Johnson read this book in one of its later forms, and gave some razor sharp feedback that allowed me to envision it as the book it is now. Thank you, Alaya. Without your feedback, this book would have forever remained an unsolvable problem. Your criticism was priceless. I am in your debt.
Thanks to all my writing groups, who have endured varying stages of drafts that eventually became this book. They are (in chronological order): The Publings, that Leading Edge aftercrowd, the Mistborn Llamas, the Rats with Swords, the Seizure Ninjas, Chris Crowe's 521 class, the Hermaphroditic Nazi Tarantuadogs, the Skype crowd, and the Johnny Hollis School of Illegal Teenage Driving. Working with all of you has been my pleasure. Thank you for the fine insights over the years.
There were a number of writing classes in both my undergraduate and graduate years who also read parts of this book. Thanks both to my professors, and my classmates, for the good times and good feedback. Also my beta readers: I dare not try to name you all, for I will forget too many of you. Thank you; you all rock. Special thanks to beta readers Tara Creel and Kathy Cowley, who read more recent drafts and gave great notes.
The fine people at the Utah Arts Council awarded this book first place in the category of young adult novel, back in the days when the book was called Haylee's Journal. Thanks to the Utah Arts Council for the ray of encouragement in the sea of rejection. Thanks especially to judge Todd Mitchell for his fine feedback, which gave me direction to give this book yet another revision.
And finally, my husband, Drew. You handle having a wife with her brain perpetually stuck in a book as if it's completely normal. (And for you, I guess it is!) You're always the first to tell me my work is good, and the first to tell me I can fix it when I discover it's not. I love you.
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You might also enjoy If I Forget You by Michelle D. Argyle.
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Janci Patterson is the author of contemporary and science fiction young adult novels. For more about Janci, visit her online at jancipatterson.com.
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Everything's Fine Page 17
