It was time to load up and go.
EPILOGUE
When they got back to Portland, it took Rakmen a week to get used to light switches and flush toilets and his dad being gone. His parents were working on things. That was good. They hadn’t fixed things yet, but they were trying.
Rakmen turned sixteen and got his driver’s license the same week. Also good. He drove to Ray’s to see his dad, and he took Molly to the Alberta Street Fair. When they stopped to watch men on tall bikes juggling fire, she slipped her arm around his waist and leaned close, smelling like strawberries and the best parts of summer.
After dinner on the second Saturday in September, Rakmen asked his mom if he could borrow the car. “I need to go to Promise House.”
“One last time, mijo?” she said, handing him the keys.
“Yeah,” he said. “One last time.”
“If you need the Kleenex—”
“—it’s on the top shelf. I know Mom.”
She smiled at him, a real smile, and he thought she was beautiful, like a piece of sea glass with the sharp edges worn away. “Take your time and drive safe. I’ll be right here.”
. . .
A low hum of conversation came from the parlor. Rakmen didn’t know what group met on Saturday nights, maybe Alcoholics Anonymous. It didn’t really matter, as long as the basement was empty. As he crossed the foyer, his sneakers squeaked on the wood floor, and Rakmen knew that, for him, the terrain of grief would always smell like lemon polish and sound like the whoosh of a tissue being pulled from a box.
At the top of the stairs, Rakmen flicked on the light. The long fluorescent bulbs flickered and clicked, slowly coming to full brightness. Nothing here had changed—same shag carpet, same ugly couch. Hand-me-down toys were piled in one corner. Cheerios were crushed into the rug. The smell of mildew filled his nose.
Rakmen opened the cupboard on the far wall and pushed aside stacks of colored construction paper and watercolor boxes. When he found the memory book, he set it gently on a battered card table and very slowly turned the pages, studying the faces of the dead.
When he reached the page Jacey had made for her brother, Rakmen paused, taking in the baby’s closed eyes and unnaturally dark lips. When he’d last looked at Jordan’s picture, he’d seen only the absence of life. Now he saw Jacey’s features in the newborn nose and round cheeks. A rush of love and loss for the tiny boy filled Rakmen.
Leaving the binder open, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph of Dora that he had chosen. In it, Rakmen held her so that they were almost nose to nose. Her downy head filled his palms and the curve of her body pressed against his forearms. He could smell her milky breath and loved the way she watched him with eyes full of stars. Her skin was whisper soft as he brushed his lips against her cheeks.
“I don’t know where to start,” he said, as he pasted the picture on the last page of the memory book. “A lot happened this summer. But maybe you know that. Leah’s ankle is healing up. Jacey is as wacky as ever. Some of the photos she took this summer are on display at a coffee shop, if you can believe that.”
Rakmen reached into his pocket again.
He held up a smooth, heart-shaped rock the color of cinnamon.
“Jacey found this on our trip. It reminds me of you.”
He brushed his thumb across its smooth surface. “They invited me to go back next summer, to spread Jordan’s ashes on Allard Lake.”
He tucked the stone back into his pocket. “I’ll keep this safe. Until next summer. Then I’ll take it to Allard.”
Rakmen was full up with a swirl of emotions.
Love and loss, fear and hope—
They eddied through him, a current carrying him into the future.
The last thing Rakmen did before closing the book was place his pen beneath his sister’s name and write—
Au large.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Books are hard to write, especially ones like this that are wrenched from the center of a very deep wound. All along the way I was buoyed up and cheered on and urged forward by an extraordinary circle of people. I am so grateful.
My family, Seth, Fisher, and Beryl, join me on every adventure, make space for my creative work, and always challenge me to be my best self. They are my safe place, my joy, and my everything good.
My parents, Marilynne and John, taught me to carry a canoe and paddle stern and count crackers and work hard. Because of them, I was lucky enough to know wilderness as a child, a gift I have tried to pass on to my own children.
My dear friends, Rebecca, Carrie, Chrissy, and Heather, have been there every step of the way, commiserating, conspiring, and celebrating with me. Shared loss brought Kristen and Mari into my life. Their support and understanding got me through many dark days. Jackie was there at the beginning, a life line.
My writing group, the Viva Scrivas, understood my vision for this book, read and reread chapter after chapter, and reminded me not to let the mother take over the story. My agent, Fiona Kenshole, took this manuscript when it was a half-finished mess, saw the beating heart of the story, and told me that I really must finish it. My editor, Andrew Karre, has a deft and subtle pen. At every turn, he pushed me to go deeper into the most painful parts of the story. It is a truer book because of him.
The team at Carolrhoda Lab and Lerner Publishing have been amazing. They made this writer feel like a super star at every turn. I also want to thank Ron for offering his expertise on fractures, Renee for fixing my Spanish, and Eric for translating the French.
Most deeply of all, I am grateful for Esther Rose. She changed everything.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amber J. Keyser is a former ballerina and evolutionary biologist with a master’s degree in zoology and a doctorate in genetics. As a research scientist, she studied evolution in western bluebirds, blue grosbeaks, marine copepods, and fruit flies and published extensively in the scientific literature. Now she writes both fiction and nonfiction for young adult readers. The Way Back from Broken is her first novel.
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