by Paula Garner
We stood watching for a while. Dara was right: that Hannah kid was a different breed from the rest.
“Hey,” she said, after a moment.
I glanced at her.
“I got a card from Meg.”
That was about the last thing I expected to hear. And yet there was nothing surprising about it.
“Have you talked to her?”
I shook my head.
She watched me for a moment. “Mueller. Don’t you think it’s —?”
“Leave it,” I said quietly.
She left it. We watched the kids for a minute. Then she asked, “How’s your therapy going?”
“It’s okay,” I said. “She wants me to keep a journal.” Basically, I guess I was still trying to learn how to talk. I didn’t mind the journaling, actually. Even though it made me think of Meg and her journal, which somehow only seemed to emphasize the distance between us.
Dara nodded, not taking her eyes from the pool. “My therapist wants my dad and me to have dinner together three nights a week. So get this: my dad hired a personal chef. We have a dinner date at home on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. He’s supposed to stop traveling so much.”
Yikes. “Well, that’s nice,” I tried.
She turned to me and grabbed a fistful of my T-shirt. “You have to come to dinner tonight. You have to.”
I shook my head, smiling gently. “You’re on your own this time.” I shrugged. “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”
She gave me an Are you kidding me? look. “Otis. Please. Just for this first time.”
“I can’t.”
“Oh, come on. You’re not doing anything and we both know it.”
I glanced down at my feet. “Today’s the anniversary of Mason’s death. I’m going to the cemetery after work.”
Dara let go of my shirt and smoothed the wrinkles out. She chewed her lip for a second, then stepped over to the pool and did her two-finger whistle. When all the heads had popped up, she yelled, “Who wants to come to my house for dinner tonight?”
This was met with a loud chorus of meeees and a flurry of hands frantically waving in the air.
Dara gave me a sidelong look, a smug smile working its way to the surface.
I laughed and headed out.
It was after five by the time I’d finished with lessons and showered off. My parents had gone to the cemetery first thing in the morning, as they always did. Because of swim practice and my work schedule, we decided to go separately.
Dara had finally traded in the Stupidmobile — for two rusted clunkers and a sizable wad of cash. The money she donated to the Wounded Warrior Project, which seemed just right to me. One of the cars was for her, to replace her beloved old Corolla.
The other was for me.
Mine was a fifteen-year-old Maxima — gray where it wasn’t rusted, with a dent in the driver’s-side door. Dara had positively beamed as she showed me its dubious virtues. It was a stick shift, of course. The stereo system had been upgraded with an amp and a subwoofer. And the engine had been tweaked so it had some good muscle — a stamp of approval from my unlikely driving mentor, although she acknowledged it would be wasted on my “pussy driving.”
I drove to the cemetery with the windows down, the warm summer breeze streaming through my damp hair. The sun was starting its descent earlier now. Soon school would start. Dara wouldn’t be there. Meg wouldn’t be there. And I could only hope that it wouldn’t always be as painful as it was now.
I pulled into the landscaped entrance, all low pink and white flowers and taller stalky purple things. On the lawn to the right, some men were moving one of those casket-lowering devices, and I choked under a sudden flash of memory: Mason’s casket. So small; so terribly, bizarrely, wrongly small. The tears sprang up, fierce and surprising; it was maybe the first time I had remembered the casket with such clarity. There was so much I had pushed away, for so long. Despite my therapist’s confidence, I wasn’t sure I was up to the task of remembering. If something is unbearable, then how do you bear it? It’s an oxymoron.
And yet I was here, wasn’t I? Somehow I was bearing it.
I parked the car and headed up the familiar, winding lane, trying to breathe through the ache in my chest.
The cemetery was oddly beautiful in all seasons. At this time of year, it was as green as hope itself. In a few months, reds and yellows would color the trees and blanket the grass. Later, when I came back for Mason’s birthday, all would be bare and still, with or without a coating of snow.
I made my way past the familiar rows of tombstones, pausing as I often did at ESTHER B. CROMWELL, 1899–2002. Esther had survived to see three different centuries, and my brother was barely a blip in one.
From a distance I could see a large bouquet of flowers at Mason’s grave, evidence of my parents’ earlier visit. White flowers, the flowers of the dead . . . Mason probably would have preferred a little color.
And then a flash of yellow caught my eye — something small and bright, nestled in the grass against his headstone. I squinted as I approached, trying to make it out. I squatted down, and as I reached for it, my breath caught.
A dump truck.
Warmth surged through me.
She’d been here. She’d come. She’d come back. Why did she? As part of her own healing? Or was she stretching herself beyond her limits, as she had done years before, out of love for me? Was there a message in this gesture, or was this just my wishful thinking at work?
It only could have come from her. My parents left only white flowers, never toys. A dump truck — dumb fuck . . . That could only be Meg. I scanned the cemetery, in case she was still there, but I saw no sign of her.
I turned to Mason’s headstone, reading it through blurred eyes, my heart aching with all the love and sorrow contained in those seven words: MASON LUKE MUELLER. FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS.
I lowered myself to the ground and sat in the grass. Not being much for talking to God, I talked to Mason instead.
Mason, it’s four years now that you’ve been gone. If you were here, you’d be seven. Seven! You’d be starting second grade this fall. I try to imagine what you’d look like, what you’d sound like, but I can’t. I’ll always wonder what you’d be like if you were still here. When I graduate high school, when I get married, when I have kids, when Mom and Dad get old . . . I’ll always be thinking of you, wishing for you. It’s never going to stop hurting; I know that now. But even though it hurts, I will carry you with me. I hope that, wherever you are, you carry me with you, too.
My closed eyes heightened my sense of surroundings: The sun dappling my face. The sweet, green smell of deep summer. The distant hum of highway traffic and, closer, the unmistakable coo of a mourning dove. The feel of the toy truck, smooth and slightly warm from the sun.
When I opened my eyes, I turned the truck over in my hands and realized there was something underneath the dump bed, taped to the base of the truck. I lifted the bed and discovered paper, tightly folded. I carefully removed the tape and opened it, my heart pounding.
There were two pages, both in Meg’s handwriting, round and small.
I read the top one first. Its ragged edges suggested it came from some kind of notebook. It was dated over a year ago:
Your card came today. I wish I could tell you how much it means to me. I keep staring at that familiar handwriting, so small and boyish but so weirdly neat. I will keep it with the other notes you gave me. I’ve saved them all.
Cassie was a good ol’ girl, you’re right. When you said you missed her, it made my heart ache, but when you said you missed me, too? It was almost too much.
I miss you, too, Otis. Every day. But you probably wouldn’t even want the “me” I am now. Some days it feels like there is nothing I haven’t ruined, especially myself. I’m trying to move on, but mostly what I wish is that I could turn back time. If I could do just one thing different, we’d still have Mason, and you’d still have me, and I’d still have you. And everything would be bett
er if I still had you.
Love, Meg
My eyes stung. I couldn’t stand to think of her hurting so badly, all that time. It was tempting to think, if only she’d reached out to me sooner, if only I’d noticed how much pain she’d been in. But I knew better than anyone the futility of if onlys. We can’t turn back time. But we can try to see things how they were, how they are. And we can try to learn from them, to make the tomorrows better.
I flipped to the second piece of paper.
Dear Otis,
If you are reading this, it means I achieved the final item on my list: the cemetery.
It means I visited Mason and left him this dumb fuck.
It means I sat at his grave and told him how amazing his big brother turned out to be, and how much I miss both of you.
When my dad and I got back to our hotel room after Michigan, I found your magnolia poem slipped under the door, with a note scrawled at the bottom: “DO NOT FUCK THIS UP.” Dara, I presume. And since we had a deal about that poem, I’ve left you a page from my journal. I hope it helps you see that even when we were far apart, I was always thinking of you.
The thing about not coming back to Willow Grove is that staying away does not resolve the Mason problem. He is in my thoughts, my memories, my triggers, my dreams. He’s forever in my heart, like his headstone says. That doesn’t change, whether I’m in Willow Grove or somewhere else. And when it comes down to it, I would rather face the pain of Mason than face the pain of losing you — again.
I love you, Otis. There was never a time when I didn’t.
New hope illuminates days dimmed by grief;
You are and e’er shall be my heart’s relief.
Is that really how you feel? Because it is very much how I feel. And if you still feel that way, and if you wouldn’t mind having me around, I would very much like to come back to Willow Grove. To stay.
So if you have any interest in seeing a girl who loves you, I am here — back at the Extended Stay, room 118. Shaking like beef. Wanting to not fuck this up. Hoping there’s a chance your navigation lady is still set to me.
Yours with so much love,
Meg
I folded up the note and set the dump truck against Mason’s headstone, then sat there, overwhelmed. When I could stand, I got up and made my way down the path to my car.
I imagined our first unspoken compromise taking shape. You will come to the cemetery if I really want you to, but I mostly will go on my own. When I come home, you will hold me. And you will remember Mason with me, but I won’t stew in the past because I know that our life is right here, right now. I will try harder to listen, and when I try to talk, no matter how inept the effort, you will tilt your head at me and make me feel important and loved. I will do the driving. You will decide how much sriracha sauce to put on our food. And I will always, always check for ducks for you.
I yanked the car door open, which took some force because of the dent. I suspected this was one of the things Dara liked about the car: the damage. But damaged doesn’t necessarily mean broken.
I closed the door and sat, staring at Meg’s note. How had this even happened? How? I thought about the sonnet, trying to figure out how Dara had done that. And then I remembered: I’d put that sonnet in my swim bag. I’d left my swim bag in Dara’s car. A + B = this. All this.
I started up the car and put all the windows down, thinking about my last conversation with Dara, right before I tore out of Michigan. I guess my house wasn’t her only errand on what was meant to be her final to-do list.
It was a lot, realizing how she had wanted to set things right. How she had wanted to give me in death what she couldn’t in life: Freedom. Happiness. A glimpse of how much she loved me. I had underestimated her so many times, in so many ways. It hurt. But I knew her better now. She was a wonder. And she broke my fucking heart. Which was already broken a million ways to Tuesday, but . . . hearts can break a lot. That is a thing I know.
But broken doesn’t necessarily mean damaged.
As I put the car into gear, a crescendo of chirps filled the air. I turned my head to the sound, and a million little birds launched skyward from the hedges in a flurry of bright yellow. I watched them disappear into the sky, then eased out of the lot and made my way to Highway 43, headed straight for the Extended Stay. My navigation lady was always set to Meg.
There were no guarantees for Meg and me. I knew that. But I was hopeful. Hopeful we’d endure. Hopeful that next May, when the magnolia bloomed again, it would find us together. But even that couldn’t be the perfect, sepia-toned image I’d always held in my mind. Because we weren’t the same. We were battered and dinged, both well past the weight limit in personal baggage. And, like the rest of humanity, it would be our destiny to be tossed and torn by events unseen and unplanned.
But that didn’t stop me from hoping we could somehow navigate it together.
Long odds, I realized. But holding on always was my strong suit.
There are so many people who made their mark on this book, and I owe them more thanks and recognition than I can even begin to express.
Zach. My swimmer, my eater, my brilliant boy. It is thanks to you more than anyone else that this novel made it to this day. Your unflagging love, devotion, and encouragement over the years kept me from ever giving up. No matter how many times I had doubts, you never did. Thank you for your steadfast support and love — and for all the ways you made sure I wasn’t screwing up the swimming parts too badly. You are a phenomenal person, and I am so glad you’re mine.
Gabe, my other sweet and brilliant son. Thank you for enduring the years I told you that you weren’t old enough for this book — and then for loving it when I finally let you read it. Since then you have helped me make countless decisions and have lent your own particular brand of savvy to everything, and I am kind of glad in the end that this process took long enough that both you and Zach were a part of it. I adore you, but who doesn’t? Go clean your room.
Thanks also are due to the lovely Mia Drelich for quick and helpful answers when I messaged with a question during writing. Mia, you are the ultimate teen consultant — bright and funny and sweet — and you never let me down. Thank you for your cheerful and reliable willingness to help.
A great debt of gratitude goes to Noah, my husband, for his limitless support and patience during all the years I’ve worked on novel writing. Thank you for never once suggesting I maybe get a paying job, and thank you for not complaining about a lot of pizza delivery for dinner when I was in the thick of things. Your belief in me made everything possible, and I will always be grateful for it.
Endless thanks go to Audrey Coulthurst, my unfathomably amazing critique partner, my all-things-bitter disciple, my salmiak sister, my dolty and devoted friend. Aud, you are the greatest CP a writer could ever hope for; I would never want to do any of this without you. Thank you for reading my work so carefully, for keeping me sane and calm, for doing confusing tech things for me, and for making sure I don’t screw things up (and fixing them when I do). From tracking my novel timelines to helping me problem-solve to keeping me from getting fired on forums, you have been impossibly generous and wonderful to me, and being your CP for your gorgeous novel has been a privilege. Plus, your deranged sense of humor is the source of boundless hilarity — you are ridiculously fun and you make me laugh like no one else. TL;DR: I’m keeping you.
Enormous gratitude goes to Rafe Posey, my incomparable critique partner, my twin anachronism, my museum of favorite things, and the person who understands without explanation everything I think/say/feel/do. Pet, you are a wonder and a treasure, and I wouldn’t trade you for anything. Thank you for all the grand adventures, for all the places and nouns, for all the things you have shown me and taught me — things I always wanted to know and things I never knew I wanted to know. Your nerdy and pedantic proclivities have come to the rescue time and time again in my work, and your love for this novel was a constant source of reassurance. It is an honor to be your
critique partner, and reading your beautiful writing is one of my greatest joys. You amaze me every day. NOW GO DO SOME WORK OMG SO POKEY.
To Kaylan, my wise, devoted, insightful editor: I wish every writer could at least once have an experience like the one I’ve had with you. The level of thoughtfulness and care you brought to this book completely blew me away. This process with you was such a privilege, and I am so pleased with the ways you helped me shape this book into what it is today. You knew when to defer and when to push, when to make suggestions and when to leave me to it, and you were always, always there to answer questions or offer help. Your contribution meant everything to me, and I am so grateful to have you in my corner.
Thanks also to the incredible team at Candlewick — Matt Roeser, Nathan Pyritz, Maggie Deslaurier, Erin DeWitt, Susan Batcheller, Tracy Miracle, Elise Supovitz, and many others whose names I may not know. I am honored by your support and your thoughtful and beautiful work on this book.
Many thanks to my agent, Molly Jaffa. You are my favorite study in contrasts: sweet yet fierce, hilarious yet serious, encouraging yet ass-kicking. Your belief in this novel and your sure hand with decisions along the way were always reassuring and calming. I wouldn’t trade your knowledge, guidance, and hand-holding on this journey for anything.
Thanks go to Bonnie Blackburn and Leofranc Holford-Strevens for ongoing thoughtfulness and generosity in fielding questions no one else I know could possibly have answered.
To my many amazing beta readers and writer friends, thank you endlessly for your help, support, and friendship. There are too many to name you all, but I would be remiss not to mention Marieke Nijkamp, Helen Wiley, Susan Bickford, Rachel Solomon, Jessica Bayliss, and Brian Katcher, whose thoughtful reading and feedback were enormously helpful in guiding this process.
A big thank-you to Tena Russ, my beautiful ogre, for the high bar you set (and for the pleasure of reading your lovely pages).
Much appreciation goes to Jessica Golub, who fielded questions along the way and always offered helpful insights and suggestions. (Thank you also to Lauren, who was gloriously impatient to read this book. Finally, right?)
