Wild Blue Wonder

by Carlie Sorosiak

  “Is . . . ?” I say tentatively. “Is Fern here?”

  “In the lobby. She wasn’t sure you’d want her in the room.”

  I lean back into my pillows and sigh. “Dylan would hate this. Seeing the way we’ve been.”

  A pause.

  Finally Reed says, “Maybe we should go tell him things are going to change.”

  Even before last July, Winship Cemetery creeped me out—five acres of cleared-flat land edged with willows perpetually weeping, and I couldn’t drive by it without my lungs getting all flat and airless. And afterward, after they lowered Dylan into the ground, I swore I’d never go back, because wasn’t I responsible for him being there in the first place? It was my fault that among the old, old headstones, there was Dylan McKenzie—Son, Brother, Friend.

  I don’t remember a whole lot from the funeral. Just Abby and Dylan’s mom gripping hands, me crying so hard that snot began running into my mouth. And Nana, when the bumbling cemetery workers couldn’t find the shovel, sinking to her knees in her black lace dress, saying in vintage let’s get this show on the road fashion, “Oh, this is ridiculous.” She started tenderly cupping dirt in her palms, burying him handful by handful. Soon others joined in—the last thing they could do for Dylan.

  Four days into winter break, when I’ve regained a bit of my strength, we park the Time Machine under one of the willows, the sun high in the sky. Reed shuts off the engine, but neither of us moves. It’s so quiet here—nothing but distant ocean waves.

  Reed tilts his head against the driver’s-side window and rests it there. “Have you been at all?”

  I know what he means. “Since the funeral? No. You?”

  “Twenty-seven times,” he says, and the fact that he’s counted tightens my chest. “Never gets any easier, though. I keep hoping it’ll get easier.”

  I unlock the door, summoning some lightness into my voice. “Maybe today’s the day.” Although, as we’re stepping along the snowy path between gravestones, making our way closer and closer to the coast, I highly doubt that. I’m terrified.

  “Your hands are shaking,” Reed notices.

  “Sorry.”

  He rubs my shoulders. “No need for sorry.”

  And then we’re there, standing directly beside Dylan. It’s weird. Just so weird to think that he’s underground.

  “Do you talk to him?” I ask.

  “Not me,” Reed says. “Nana likes to, though. Says she hears him sometimes.”

  “Nana?”

  “Reads to him. From that storybook, like when we were little.”

  “I . . . I didn’t know Nana visited him.” Realization comes in a gigantic wave. “But that makes sense. That makes total sense.”

  “I was thinking,” Reed says, “that maybe we can finally tell him our stories.”

  I squint at him through the too-bright sunlight reflecting off the snow.

  “You know,” he continues, “when everyone at the funeral was supposed to stand up and give their favorite story about him? And we didn’t?”

  I’d managed to block that out completely. Dylan’s dad. Abby. His other classmates. Everyone managed to share something. Stories about his basketball games, his way with horses, even his penchant for ordering pizza deliveries to The Hundreds in the wee hours of the morning. And I just couldn’t do it—couldn’t face half the town in the wake of what happened, could barely breathe without remembering that Dylan would never, ever have that luxury again.

  To be honest, I didn’t notice that Reed hadn’t spoken, either.

  My voice shakes. “Okay.”

  “I’ll go first.” He rubs a hand across his mouth. “So Dylan and I were about eleven, maybe twelve, and we had this competition going to see who could scare each other the most in one summer. I was always hiding under things: trapdoors in the stage, sheets in the laundry room. And Dylan had the best reactions. Eyes completely bugged out like you wouldn’t believe. He was down, like, four or five scares at the end of the summer, and I think he wanted to get me good. So good that all my scares wouldn’t even count. I was walking through the woods after a big rainstorm—mud everywhere, big puddles. Minding my own business. And then all of a sudden he roars up, only a foot in front of me, covered head to toe in mud. Clothes, ears, everything. I don’t know how long he’d been waiting there—hours, maybe—but I swear I dropped to the ground and into the fetal position. I have never been so scared in my life. But after I got over it, I couldn’t stop laughing. And he couldn’t stop laughing . . . and yeah, that’s my favorite memory.”

  My nerves settle a bit. “You never told me that one before.”

  “Tell my little sister that I nearly peed my pants in fear? Don’t think so.” He fake-punches my arm. “Okay, your turn.”

  I swallow. Deciding on a story is more difficult than I initially think. There are just so many—and if I let them, I know that all these stories can stack up like weights on my chest. But today I won’t let them.

  “It’s not a big thing,” I say.

  “Doesn’t have to be.”

  I begin slowly. “It was the first day of middle school . . . and I was really nervous. Really, really nervous. I’d bought this brand-new pair of sneakers that I thought were cool. The shiny red ones? And first period, not even an hour into school, Matt Salpietra started a rumor that I was training to be a clown. That my red shoes were proof. And I ended up crying in the bathroom for most of math class. Dylan found out, and when he showed up to school the next day, he was wearing the same shoes. He’d gone to the mall after school with his mom and bought them in his size. And we never even talked about it—but no one made fun of our shoes again.”

  Reed nods, lips pressed together. “I never knew that, either.”

  “Well, I knew you weren’t a fighter . . . but you might’ve wanted to beat up Matt.”

  “Oh, no question. Actually, hearing that now, I still want to beat up the kid.”

  “A little more difficult now that you’re his basketball coach.”

  “Extra laps, then.” Reed grins, throwing an arm around me. “Extra laps until he cries.”

  I laugh, and I realize it feels good—to laugh again with Reed, even here, even now. And I hope, in some way, that Dylan’s seeing this.

  On the walk back to the Time Machine, Reed’s phone buzzes. He peers at the screen. “It’s Charlie. I told him we might be here today. Is it . . . is it okay if he meets us?”

  “Yeah,” I say, because it is. It completely is. “I’m sorry. I’ve been kind of horrible to him. I think I thought he was, like, replacing Dylan for you.”

  “You know, I met Charlie right after everything happened. He was waiting in line for takeout pizza at Ruby’s, we just started talking, and . . . it took me a while to open up to him. Really open up. Tell him about my feelings for Dylan. And do you know what he said? That I might feel guilty—that I might feel like I’m replacing him. But he also said there’s nothing to be guilty about, that no one’s going to replace Dylan. And he’s not trying to. But that doesn’t mean I can’t love again, that we can’t love each other.”

  The way Reed says love brings a small smile to my mouth. “He sounds wise, this Charlie.”

  “I think you’d like him, if you gave him a chance.”

  So I do.

  When Charlie pulls up in a dusty Subaru five minutes later, the first thing he does is wave to me. The second is he kisses my brother. And it suddenly seems like the most important thing in the world: the way they’re embracing each other, like if they just keep holding on, then everything will be okay.

  No one will replace Dylan.

  Not now, not ever.

  But what’s stopping me from letting other people in?

  That Wednesday morning, I unearth my favorite silver Speedo from the box in my closet.

  It fits mostly like I remember.

  I throw on my Adidas sweatshirt and sweatpants and head for the kitchen, where Dad’s pouring coffee in his to-go mug. I heard him talking to Mom
about examining water samples at the university, taking the opportunity to blast Beethoven while his colleagues aren’t around.

  I ask, “You got room for one more in the Time Machine?”

  He takes a sip of coffee too early and burns his tongue. “Uh, sure, kiddo. You want to help me with some water samples?”

  “Actually,” I say, “I think I’d really like to go for a swim.”

  For thirty minutes, I’ve been perched on the poolside bench at Winship U, without so much as dipping in my pinkie toe. The chlorine’s no longer stinging my nostrils, but it’s still difficult to breathe. Maybe it’s because half of me is expecting Dylan to slide onto the other side of the bench, asking, So, Sawyer, how far should we swim today?

  Far, I want to tell him. Long. Long enough to clear my head. Swimming’s what I turned to when the world got too cluttered, when I needed sound cut out, just the water and me. I let myself get away from that.

  Standing up, I circle around to the low dive and climb the ladder, mist hazing around me, the warmth in here a sharp contrast to outside. And for a moment I allow myself to focus on this moment—the rough board shivering beneath my feet, the cut of my arms through the thick air—and I jump. It’s not a smooth dive. I don’t want it to be.

  When I hit the water, time stops . . .

  then speeds up in supersonic motion, and I’m absolutely charging through the water—legs kicking, heart pounding, alive.

  December

  Love, Actually

  The three days before Christmas Eve, Fern starts to act strange.

  First comes the night-sky washi tape, decorated with little rhinestones for stars. Before bed on Wednesday, she rolls a piece between her fingers and drags the remaining scrapbook from beneath her bed, flipping through it silently. On Thursday, she speaks to me: a simple “Morning,” and then we’re brushing our teeth, in our bathroom, at the same time. “Pass the towel?” she says, and there are no razor blades in her words.

  But she’s also sleeping more. I feel like she’s been asleep half of winter break.

  I’m terrified to talk to her. What if things don’t go the same way they did with Reed?

  On the morning of the twenty-third, Reed bursts into our room with “Get up, we’re going grocery shopping.” It’s said affectionately, although Fern stays in bed with her eyes closed. Guess she’s not up for it. I should rouse her with carols. But instead I throw on a Christmas sweater that swathes me in the color and physique of a snowwoman, and ten minutes later, Nana, Reed, and I climb into the Time Machine with a three-mile-long grocery list. During the ride, Nana calls out extra items we might’ve forgotten to write down.

  “Cranberries!”

  I double-check. “Got it.”

  “Flour!”

  “Yep.”

  “Fruit bat!”

  “What?”

  She hee-hee-hees. “Just making sure you’re paying attention.”

  The parking lot’s expectedly two-days-before-Christmas packed, a third of Winship panic-buying instant mashed potatoes and ham. By the entrance, a Hannaford employee—dressed head to toe in elf garb—is handing out free cinnamon-chocolate cookies, so of course I indulge in several. The look she flings my way could have something to do with me shoving the first cookie entirely into my mouth.

  Nana tears the list into three parts. “Divide and conquer,” she says, handing me the middle portion. “Meet back at the registers in half an hour.”

  So I’m meandering through the aisles, throwing sweet potatoes and sticks of butter into my basket, cynically judging the people on cereal boxes. How can they be so darn thrilled about mass-manufactured breakfast items? And why is it always sunny in Cereal Land? Why do their smiles literally sparkle? Why, why—

  Why am I seeing things?

  Or is Theia actually at the end of the aisle, near the frozen vegetables, her nimble fingers rifling through two-for-one bags of peas? Oh sweet Jesus, no. Somehow she manages to still look elegant, although she’s hunched at a ninety-degree angle in a sweater that puts mine to absolute shame. I think about rounding the corner, safely into the kitty litter aisle. But then, as if she hears my panic, Theia lifts her chin, finds my face, and freezes like the peas.

  I take a few breaths and decide that I should wave.

  Then decide—halfway through said wave—that it’s a horrible idea. Didn’t I crush her grandson’s heart? My arm is trapped in this poorly thought-out third dimension, lingering midair as if reaching for something that I can’t quite grab, when Alexander comes into view, cradling a turkey like a newborn in his arms.

  Theia waves back at me.

  Alexander’s head whips in my direction, and I’ve been spotted. Spotted in snowwoman attire, chocolate cookie residue almost definitely somewhere on my face, and the hurt look Alexander’s giving me is enough to make me want to alert the Hannaford manager: Cleanup on aisle twelve. We have an explosion of the heart.

  I don’t know if he’s texted me—I haven’t turned on my phone since I got stranded at sea. Like with Fern, I’m afraid. What happens if I’ve screwed things up permanently?

  “They’re having a sale on minimarshmallows,” Reed suddenly says behind me, lifting a package to read out the ingredients. “What are the odds Mom will let us eat these if they have . . . corn syrup, blue dye 1, and tetra—terasodium pyro . . . I can’t even pronounce that. Do you think . . .” The rest of his sentence drops to the floor as he sees them. After the cemetery, I spilled everything to him and Charlie, down to the Laundromat and the red cape, the kiss on the mess-hall table. And they listened. And they understood.

  Alexander turns and walks away, like I’m not here at all.

  So that answers that question.

  Placing a supportive hand on my shoulder, Reed says quietly, “We can go if you want. Do you want to go?”

  It’s hard to explain, but answering him is like swallowing a LEGO and then trying to cough it up in words.

  Reed quickly transfers the groceries from both our carts into Nana’s and leads me back into the parking lot with his hand draped over my shoulder. “You know, no one will blame you if you cry.”

  “I’m not going to cry.”

  “But if you wanted to, that would be okay.”

  Instead we get in the Time Machine and turn the radio all the way up, let it rattle us through.

  Christmas Eve morning comes with several taps on my window.

  I open it all the way and rest my hands on the snowy ledge. “It’s just a thought, but someday you could use the front door.”

  Hana pshh-aws. “Much cooler this way.”

  Wearing a spectacular polar bear onesie, she barrel rolls through my window, shucking off her boots by the edge of my bed, thus showcasing the kick-ass felt claws attached to her feet. We always exchange presents in our pajamas on Christmas Eve—a leftover tradition from when we were twelve, our pajama year, when our parents waged a constant battle to get us into normal day clothes. This year I’ve opted for a dolphin-printed set.

  “I’ve never seen this,” I say, smoothing the fabric of her hood, which is also decked in faux fur.

  “Elliot gave it to me for Christmas.”

  “Wow, he really gets you.”

  “I know, right? It’s kind of scary.” From her hefty pocket, she retrieves a small gift wrapped in shimmery red paper, while I remove an envelope from my nightstand. “You first,” she says, handing me the gift.

  I slowly peel back the paper until a miniature wooden seal pokes its way into the light. I crack up.

  Hana and I’ve been talking on the landline the last couple of days; I gave her a play-by-play of what happened the night I passed out at sea, and she agreed that it makes sense. The sea creature could be a group of seals, or it could be the great, monolithic animal of our town’s collective imagination. Whatever it is, though, I’ve stopped calling it a monster.

  “This is perfect,” I tell her.

  “I made it myself.”

  “Seriously?”


  “No, not seriously. You think I could make that? That this whole I’m hanging out with Elliot thing was a front for I’m secretly becoming a master wood-carver?”

  We laugh, and I hand her the envelope, inside which are two tickets to see Hozier (one of our favorite indie singers) in concert, and she hops back and forth when she sees. “Holy crap, these are good seats.”

  “Close enough to smell his sweat.”

  “First, gross. Second, this is too much.”

  “No, it’s not. You and Elliot are going to have a really good time.”

  She jerks her head back. “Are you kidding me? You and I are going together. Do not think for one instant, Quinn Sawyer, and that I am the kind of girl who ditches her best friend for her boyfriend, especially when long-haired Irish musicians are involved.”

  A smile inches its way up my mouth. “Sorry I doubted you.”

  “You are forgiven. Now where’s your cat?”

  Step two of the Hana-and-Quinn Christmas tradition involves dressing Galileo in a red bow (which he views as some sort of heinous punishment, the cone of shame 2.0) and driving to the mall just over the New Hampshire border to get his picture taken with Santa. Dad tags along for a last bit of gift shopping—and halfway to New Hampshire he admits that he hasn’t done any shopping, so I tell him to get some Himalayan rock salt lamps for Mom and Nana, a video game for Reed, and a black velvet sweater for Fern.

  In one of those tacky Christmas shops, I hold up what’s advertised as a sandcastle elf. “A delightful addition to any holiday stocking,” I say to Hana in a put-on announcer voice. “Why, it has so many uses year-round! In the summer, it can sit regally atop any sandcastle. And in the autumn, it can frighten any small child who has the misfortune of looking at it.”

  “And this!” Hana bursts, stumbling upon a Singing Salmon. “For the relative who has everything, except a very classy musical fish.”

  Galileo very briefly escapes into Bed Bath & Beyond after biting Santa, but overall, the trip is a success.