Love Will Keep Us Together (Miracle Girls Book 4)

by Anne Dayton

  I pull back and squeeze Ana’s hands. Her face is ashen, and her eyes are red. Christine is sitting on Ana’s bed, and Zoe is next to her, gripping one of Ana’s tacky throw pillows with all her might.

  “I want to try to fit it all in a carry-on so I don’t have to wait for the baggage claim,” Ana says, studying the neat piles of clothes lined up in front of her suitcase. We all nod. We know what this means. Ana wants to be there with Maria at the end, and Maria doesn’t have much time left. “It’s going to be tight.” She starts placing her clothes inside in precise piles, her movements quick and efficient.

  Zoe slips off the bed, walks over to Ana’s desk, and lifts a piece of paper off the surface. “Why do you have an electric blanket on your list?” Zoe cocks an eyebrow.

  “Pneumonia gives you the chills,” Ana says and starts digging around in her closet. She pulls out a dark blue blanket with a cord and puts it in the suitcase. “Also, I can’t forget to bring my digital thermometer. I don’t know if Maria’s niece has one, and we’ll want to have accurate readings,” Ana says, almost to herself. “Can you add that to the list for me, Zo? Oh, and I need to grab the vaporizer.” Ana rattles off five more gadgets and medical doodads that only she would have heard of. This is Ana is crisis mode: focused, organized, and hyper efficient.

  She leans back on her heel, surveys the already-overflowing suitcase, and shakes her head. “This is never going to fit.” She pulls a giant piece of black luggage off a high shelf in her closet, unzips it, and puts it down next to the other one so she can transfer her things over.

  “You’re doing a great job.” I smile at her, not sure why I said it. Maybe it’s because for the first time in her life Ana isn’t in control of a situation. I sink down onto the floor next to her.

  “She’ll be so excited to see you.” Zoe joins us, sitting cross-legged next to me. I fight the urge to glance at Christine, who’s boring her eyes into Ana’s duvet. Christine knows what it’s like to lose someone you love, and though her mom passed away before high school started, before we even knew each other, I’m sure it still feels like yesterday. She’ll come over and join us when she can. “I still can’t believe your parents are letting you go to Mexico by yourself.”

  “Seriously, when you told me that, I thought the earth was off its axis.” We all turn at the sound of Christine’s voice. She raises a wry eyebrow at us and comes over and joins our circle.

  “Actually, I didn’t give them much choice.” Ana laughs. “When Graciella called and told me they were moving Maria to hospice care, I just sort of told Mom and Papá that I was going to be there by her bedside.”

  “Really?” I can feel my eyes bug out of my head. “And they went for it?”

  Ana grabs a pair of tennis shoes from the closet floor. “I had to promise to stay in constant contact,” she says as she chunks them into the suitcase. “I’m supposed to video chat with my parents every day, and I promised to upload photos and text messages every few hours so they’ll know I’m alive.”

  “Wait, you’re going to do all of that in the Middle of Nowhere, Mexico?” Christine shakes her head.

  “Guanajuato is hardly the sticks. Graciella has high-speed Internet at home. I called to double check.”

  My head swims thinking about how efficient and driven Ana is. Why couldn’t I have been born more like her? When she’s faced with an insurmountable task, it only somehow makes her more capable. She doesn’t hide and hope it goes away.

  Zoe grabs her hand and squeezes it. “What are you going to do about school?”

  “Mom filled out the long-term absence form, so that buys me a week or so. Then it’s spring break. After that, I’m really not sure.” Ana shrugs nonchalantly. What a far cry this Ana is from the underclassman who lived and died by her class standing. I wonder if she even realizes we’re currently tied for number one. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.”

  Her face goes dark, and my heart breaks for her. I take Ana’s other hand, and we draw them all together. Christine throws her hands in too, and we’re bound into a tight knot.

  “Thanks, guys.” Ana smiles at us. “For coming over and for this.” She squeezes us and then lets go. “Now, if you really want to be there for me, you’ll help me pack. I’m leaving in two hours.”

  We all rise to our feet and throw ourselves into the task at hand. Christine takes Ana’s packing list and calls out items. Zoe pulls things off the shelves, and I run back and forth to the medicine cabinet, locating bizarre medical equipment. And before we know it, we’ve got our friend ready to face one of the hardest times in her life.

  Christine lowers the top of the huge suitcase, which is stuffed to the brim. “I really don’t think that thing is going to close.”

  Zoe sits on it, and they goof around, trying to get the zipper to slide in a variety of ways. I take a few steps back and watch the scene. If you squint, if you move forward a few short months in your mind, this looks like something else entirely. This is how it will be when they pack and leave—and I stay behind.

  My knees want to buckle, and the air whooshes out of my lungs. I stumble backward and sit on the bed.

  “You okay, Cheerleader?” Christine stops trying to zip the suitcase and looks at me.

  “Oh, I’m fine. Totally fine.” I fan my face, trying to get air. “It’s just . . . I’m going to miss…Ana.”

  37

  I unlock the door and peer in like I’m expecting the boogeyman to jump out. The clock reads 3:15. For the first time in an eternity, the stars of high school extracurriculars have aligned to set me free right after school.

  I walk in the front door, set down my backpack, pull off my shoes, and wander through the rooms one by one. Mom and Michael should be home. I hear a muffled noise from the formal dining room and head that direction. As I turn the corner, I jump.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Mom’s forehead is pressed to the glass top of her formal dining table, the one I’m not allowed to leave fingerprints on, and Michael is sitting in the corner, tapping his head on the wall, mumbling to himself.

  Mom pulls her head off the table. “We’re taking a short break.”

  Michael doesn’t seem to notice I’m in the room, but his repetitious mumbling gets louder so I know he sees me.

  “You’re home early.” Mom is only wearing one earring, and her shirt’s untucked. I try not to stare.

  “Yeah, kind of a fluke.” I begin to edge out of the room. This whole scene is weirding me out. Maybe I’ll give them a moment. “Just wanted to say hi. I’ve got some stuff to do.”

  Mom nods and lays her head back on the table.

  I head down the hall, my feet slipping across the hardwood floors, as I hear her pleading with Michael to sit at the table again and finish his work. Michael’s mumbling gives way to full-on screeching, and that’s when it hits me. This is my chance.

  Michael’s tantrums never last too long, so I only have a little while to find out more about Dr. Matt. Tom was able to give me his last name and e-mail address, but I still need a few questions answered before I e-mail him.

  I flip on the light and walk into the office. No one seems to notice, and for once, I’m thankful. I lower myself into the padded desk chair and pull open the bottom desk drawer, my pulse pounding in my ears. I’m not sure what I’m about to do is the right thing. I hate to sneak around behind Mom and Dad’s backs, but I’d do anything to help Michael. It’s worth it if I can save my brother. God can see that, right?

  I used to think my mom was really organized. She has an elaborate filing system with color-coded labels, but it’s been months since she’s actually had time to file anything. I flip to the folder labeled MICHAEL, then to the subfolder UCSF, but as I suspected, it’s empty. That means the records are buried somewhere in—I shove the drawer closed—there. I pull a wire basket stacked with papers toward me. I flip through the papers on top. Phone bills, address labels from Christmas cards, receipts. Nothing that looks like medical record
s. I’m going to have to go through the whole stack. I take a deep breath and start to rifle through.

  A few minutes later, with Michael’s screams still echoing through the house, I find a yellowing envelope. Tucked inside is a stack of my old report cards. I pull one out gingerly and see it’s from third grade. I made A’s in math, science, reading, spelling . . . pretty much everything. Except—I peek over at the right side, where Mrs. Mickelson graded other things. Maturity: C. Self-control: C+. Decision Making: D.

  I fold the paper and shove it back into the envelope. What kind of cracked-out school grades kids on maturity anyway? Of course I wasn’t exercising good judgment. I was nine. I toss the envelope back into the pile and keep searching. I have to keep focused, searching for anything that looks vaguely medical, but still, I can’t stop wondering why my parents were looking at my old report cards.

  The wailing in the other room stops, but Mom’s voice is a steady hum. I don’t have too much longer now. I turn back toward the stack of papers. Records. What I need is Dr. Matt’s records, and they’re not here.

  There are a bunch of other medical papers in the bottom of the basket, but no records, so I turn to the computer. I drum my fingers on the keyboard while it boots up, and then poke around in the virtual files, but I don’t find anything that looks likely. It has to be in her e-mail.

  What would her password be? I open her e-mail program and type in Mom’s username. MMcGee. It’s the same for everything. For her password I type in RealEstate. No luck. I try HalfMoonBay. Nothing. Okay. How about Indiana? That’s the name of the dog we had when I was a kid. I try a few other likely combinations, but nothing works.

  They have to be in there. I’ve got to get into her e-mail somehow.

  I press my fingers against my eyelids.

  “Riley!” Mom yells from the kitchen. “Could you come give me a hand?”

  “Hold on.” Okay. I need a Plan B. I open a separate tab and log into my Gmail. If she comes in here, I’ll close out of her e-mail quickly and say my computer is acting funny. It has been crashing a lot recently. But as soon as my e-mail loads, a message from Ana catches my eye, and I can’t resist clicking on it.

  Hey guys,

  I made it. Maria’s not good, but she’s peaceful. More soon.

  Ana

  I know she’ll write more when she can, but even her few terse words make it clear that she’s hurting. I whisper a prayer for Ana and for Maria. I remember what it was like to face death, how terrifying it felt to know that my moments on earth were numbered, and I pray for peace for Maria’s soul.

  “Riley, I need your help getting dinner started.”

  “In a minute!” My heart begins to race, and I click back to my mom’s ancient AOL account. What’s her stupid password? How hard can this be? Think, Riley, think.

  I type Michael’s name into the password line. No luck. I move to close down the window, then pause. I might as well try. I type in Riley and hit return.

  A moment later, her inbox pops up onto the screen, and I pump my fists in the air.

  Quickly, I search for the words Matt Nguyen in her messages. A message pops up from him from last summer. I click on it and see that at the bottom of the screen is an attachment called McGee_Eval. Bingo. I double click it and download the Word document.

  It opens, and I know I’ve found it. It’s got the logo from the UCSF program there at the top. I scan the papers, dated from a year and a half ago, when Michael left the program.

  Michael lacks self-control and self-discipline.

  Apparently it runs in the family. I run my eyes down the evaluation form.

  Seems not to notice certain external stimuli.

  Methodical and repetitive.

  Prone to violent outbursts.

  Dr. Matt’s evaluation goes on for several pages, but the more I read, the more I wish I hadn’t. It’s nothing I didn’t know, and it’s all true, but somehow, seeing it there in black and white makes it feel so cold. In these notes Michael isn’t a living, breathing person, he’s a case number, a problem to be solved. On the last page, there’s a note.

  I strongly recommend that Michael stay at UCSF for further therapy.

  The scrawled signature at the bottom reads Matthew Nguyen.

  I stare at the screen until the words become blurry. I guess I knew they wanted to keep Michael there at the program longer. I remember my parents discussing it and deciding to bring him home at the end of the summer. I remember being excited about him coming home. I made him a Welcome Back cake, but he refused to eat it because it had melted chocolate chips, which he hates because . . . Well, who even knows why. I remember that it was the start of junior year, and Tom had recently left for college, and I was frustrated by the chaos our lives were plunged into when Michael came home again. I remember just wanting things to get better.

  Did we do the right thing? If he had stayed at UCSF longer, like Dr. Matt wanted, would Michael be better off now? I lower my head into my hands. It never occurred to me that we were being selfish in wanting him to come home again. He was fourteen, and he’d been gone for three months, and he said he wanted to come back home, but now, I don’t know. I can’t help wondering if maybe he would have been able to survive at Marina Vista if he’d stayed at UCSF longer. Maybe it would have been kinder to him, in the end, to let him go.

  I open a blank message and write Dr. Matt a brief note, chronicling what’s been going on all year and asking for his help.

  Soft footsteps sound in the hallway, getting closer and closer.

  I sign it Michelle McGee and hit send. Then I shut the report document, move it to the trash, and quit the browser window in a matter of seconds.

  “Riley?” Mom appears in the doorway and raises her eyebrows. “What are you doing on my computer?”

  “Coming.” I push myself out of the chair. “Sorry. Mine’s acting funny, and I wanted to check up on Ana.” I ask God to forgive me for lying to her and snooping around and pray this doesn’t technically count as a sin. Do you get any credit for having good intentions?

  38

  It’s like God dumped dirty bathwater all over Half Moon Bay. The rain pours down in thick sheets, soaking the dark streets and pooling on the soggy grass. The spot where the Living Nativity stood at Christmas is one big mud puddle, scarred and raw in the otherwise perfect lawn in front of the perfect church.

  Michael throws open the car door and takes off across the dark lot, flapping his arms. He’s mad because I wouldn’t drop him off in front of the youth room door, and maybe I’m being passive-aggressive, but it’s his fault we’re late anyway. He was the one who had to count all five hundred puzzle pieces before we could put the stupid box away. I watch his blond head disappear inside the church doors.

  Maybe I should stay out here where it’s quiet. I’m not in the mood for tied-up-with-a-bow sermons about Jesus helping you battle cliques and God being there for you when you get a zit. Why does church boil stuff down to baby food? Real life is so much more complex, and baffling, and lonely. I lean my head against the headrest and close my eyes, but all I can think about is why I came tonight.

  Ugh. I tap the steering wheel a few times. I have to go in there for Ben. No matter what has happened between us, he needs a friend right now. I force myself to climb out of the van.

  The lights from the youth room spill out into the dark lot, reflecting across standing pools of water. Through the window, I can make out Dave and Tyler on the small stage. They must still be doing worship time. Which, now that I think about it, is kind of a ridiculous concept. Aren’t we supposed to worship God all the time? My foot lands squarely in a puddle, and a bit of water splashes over the rim on my shoe and creeps into my sock. I decide to make a run for it.

  I duck under the eave as the band finishes a song, the long, low notes hanging there, only partially muffled by the thin walls of the youth room. I shake the water off my jacket and comb my fingers through my hair, then walk toward the door, clinging to the side of the
building, out of the way of the rain. I’m almost at the corner when something in the shadows moves.

  “Aah!” I jump back.

  “It’s just me, Riley,” Ben says.

  I lean back, pressing my back against the hard wooden shingles that cover the walls of the old wing of the church. Inside the youth room, Fritz is reading from the Bible.

  “You gonna hang out here all night?”

  He shrugs. “I’m working up the guts to go inside.”

  “So why are you here?” Rain splashes down onto the black asphalt in sheets, but it’s dry and almost cozy here under the eave.

  “For Asha, I guess.” He kicks at the cement. “She couldn’t face them, but I wanted to go in there and do it for her.”

  I tilt my head and shove my hands into my pockets. “Am I supposed to say something about how everyone is wanted at church?”

  “Nah. You’ll get in trouble for lying.” He peeks his head around the corner to look inside the youth room. From where I’m standing, I can see Maddie Barrow bowing her head in prayer.

  “You’re right. They’re a bunch of hypocrites.” I study his face. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his cheeks look sunken, like he’s lost weight. “Please tell me Asha knows that.”

  “Church is supposed to be the one place where your past mistakes don’t matter, where forgiveness means a clean slate,” Ben says, his voice flat. “I used to really believe that. But now . . .” He shakes his head. “You ever feel like God is one thing, and church is something else entirely?”

  I nod. It’s funny. Maybe it’s because of the changes I’ve seen in my church this year, or because of the mistakes I’ve made, or maybe it’s simply a part of growing up, but the church I grew up with looks less and less like the body of Christ these days. The more I stare at it, the more it looks like a bunch of messed-up people trying to look like they’re doing the right thing.