by Jessi Kirby
“I’m so sad.”
It’s like it appears on her face instantly now that she’s said it, and I can’t believe I didn’t see it until this second.
“I was so in love with him.” Her eyes fall to her lap. “Am so in love with him.” She shakes her head again. “And I hate it, because he took my heart and just stomped all over it. I shouldn’t love him still. And now . . . it’s like this paralyzing kind of feeling. Like my world just crumbled right in front of me, you know?”
I nod. I do, more than anyone.
“Oh Jesus, I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.”
“No it wasn’t,” I say. “It not like . . . it’s not like it just happened. You don’t have to keep being so careful around me. Actually, I kinda like the whole ‘fake it till you make it’ approach. That run hurt, but it felt good too, to be out there again.”
“Yeah, it did,” Ryan agrees, but she still looks a little lost.
“So maybe we can just keep faking it together for a little while? Keep running?”
Ryan thinks about it for a moment, and the spark comes back into her eyes. “Yeah, I like that. But first we need to get out of this house. And get us some more chocolate. And maybe some new running clothes, if we’re gonna fake it right. Your ratty old running shorts aren’t gonna fool anyone.”
I toss the magazine back at her. “That’s my favorite pair. I’ve had them forever.”
“Yeah, well in the interest of moving forward, it’s time you found a new favorite pair of shorts.”
We make the drive into town, with Ryan behind the wheel, which is always somewhere between fun and terrifying. With the music blasting loud and my sister singing next to me, it feels like it used to. Almost like it used to—but better, closer, like we’re in this together. We hit Target, the one major store in town, just like we used to before Ryan left for college, grab a coffee at Starbucks, and cruise the air-conditioned aisles for the things we need and don’t need. By the time I come home, I’ve got a whole new running wardrobe, courtesy of Ryan and her leftover travel money.
Up in my room, I take everything out of the bags and lay it out on the bed, feeling motivated by my new gear just like Ryan said I would. I check my phone for the fiftieth time, but there are no texts from Colton. It’s not quite dinner yet, and I have a little time to kill, so I cross the room to my desk, flip open my laptop, and click over to Shelby’s blog, hoping for something new, some new picture of him, or a little quote or story about him, but it’s the same post that’s been up since his one-year checkup.
To all our friends and family, we are so thankful for all your support. It’s been a long year, but Colton’s checkup came back great, and he’s finally adjusting to all his meds. . . .
I remember the pill box, and Colton swallowing the pills when he thought I couldn’t see him. I sit there for a moment, then type into the search box “Post–heart transplant medications.”
Millions of results come up in seconds, lots from medical journals and articles that I don’t think I’ll understand, but lower on the results page, a line from some sort of transplant message board catches my eye:
“You’ve traded in death for a lifetime of medical management. . . .”
I click on the link to the quote, which comes from a forty-two-year-old heart transplant patient. He continues:
Don’t get me wrong—I’d make that trade again in a second. And at my age, that’s something I can handle. There are limitations. Medical limitations, and physical ones too. Risks that you take when you’re young and don’t have a medical condition. Much as you want to, that’s not something you can forget. You can’t afford to. Doesn’t matter if you’re tired, or you don’t want to take them because you hate the way they make you feel. Doesn’t matter if there are major side effects. That’s a part of your life now, just like checkups, and biopsies, and monitoring your weight, blood pressure, heart rate. It’s a gift, but a huge responsibility to shoulder. And if you can’t find a way to get on board with all that, then you’re risking yourself and your transplant. You have to be careful with yourself, and honest about your limits.
I think of Colton. How healthy he seems. And strong. But maybe there are limitations I can’t see, or don’t know about. It makes me want to be careful with him—like the nurse said, like Shelby said without actually saying those words. It makes me feel responsible for his heart, in more ways than one.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“The rhythms that count—the rhythms of life, the rhythms of the spirit—are those that dance and course in life itself. The movement in gestation from conception to birth; the diastole and systole of the heart; the taking of each successive breath; the ebb and flow of tides in response to the pull of the moon and the sun; the wheeling of the seasons from one equinox or one solstice to another—these, not the eternally passing seconds registered on clocks and watches and not the days and months and years that the calendar imposes, define the time . . . we dwell within until our days our ended.”
—Allen Lacy, The Inviting Garden: Gardening for the Senses, Mind, and Spirit
AFTER THAT FIRST morning run, Ryan and I take turns choosing our running route. It’s busy at the office, more than Mom can handle on her own, so Dad is back to his normal routine and it’s just the two of us. We run down roads lined with row after row of rolling vineyards, down single-track trails into ravines with narrow creeks hidden beneath ferns and poison ivy. Sometimes we talk, but mostly it’s just us, and the morning, the rhythm of our feet, and breath, and heartbeats, and the burning of my muscles and lungs as they remember how to be alive.
After our runs, Ryan heads to Gran’s to paint and work on her portfolio, and I make the drive over to the coast. Somewhere along the road that twists and curves between the trees, I become the me who Colton knows.
We start meeting every day at the bluff where we went out kayaking that first day, and I wonder if it’s to avoid Shelby. If he’s keeping me a secret like I’ve kept him. I try not to think about it, and it’s easy when we’re together. He shows me every place he used to know, hidden coves and coastal roads, places that hold memories from his childhood. This is how I start to know him. I don’t have to ask any questions, because he shows me his past this way—the past he wants me to know, without any hospital beds, or oxygen tubes, or plastic boxes full of pills.
I start to recognize the rhythm of our days—how there seem to be windows of time we can be out on the water, or under the sun. I try to be careful, try to see any limitations he might have. Our only one seems to be when he needs to take his meds. I try to anticipate it. When I think the time is coming for him to take a dose, I make sure to busy myself with whatever distraction I can find: wildflowers growing along a trail, a line of pelicans gliding low over the surface of the ocean, searching for shells in the sand. I try to give him a few moments to himself for those things he doesn’t want me to see.
I learn from him all the things he does want me to see in the details he points out and in the things he says. I learn that he admires his dad but that he is closest to his grandfather, who passed on his love of the sea and all its old sailors’ legends. He knows just about every constellation in the sky and the stories behind all of them. He really does think each day can be better than the last.
I think he learns from me, too. I let things come out without him having to ask. I tell him about running with Ryan, and about Gran and her Red Hat ladies. I tell him I’m not sure what comes next for me. That I like what we’re doing now. That I want to keep doing this.
And there’s this current running between us, building and growing in our quiet moments, and in the laugh-out-loud ones too. I see it when our eyes catch and he smiles, hear it in the way he says my name. I feel it whenever our hands or shoulders or legs brush up against each other. I think he does too, but there’s something holding him back. I don’t know if it’s for my sake or his, but we dance around each other, Colton and I, despite the magnets in our centers, the full-of-life beating
ones that pull us closer every day.
One day, after we’ve kayaked and had lunch, I tell him I want to learn how to surf, so we start in the afternoon with the basics. He pushes me into wave after wave, yelling for me to stand up and cheering each time I do—even when I fall right back down. We do this over and over until finally I get it. I paddle for a wave, as hard as I can, and I feel just a little push from him— enough to get me into it. This time when he yells for me to stand up, I do, and I find my balance and ride the wave all the way in. It’s the most amazing feeling in the world, and I don’t ever want to stop or get out of the water, so we stay, into the early evening, paddling out and surfing in until my arms are shaky and I can hardly lift them.
Later, we sit out beyond where the waves break, our boards floating next to each other on the glassy surface of the water. The afternoon wind has died down, and beachgoers have started to clear out, except for the ones who are staying for the sunset. The sun hangs low and heavy over the water. I can feel Colton’s eyes on me as I watch it, and I turn to look at him.
“What?” I ask, feeling self-conscious.
Colton grins and swirls his foot around in the water. “Nothing, I just . . .” His face goes more serious. “Do you know how many days I spent wishing I could just do this? It’s . . .”
He says something else, but I don’t hear him, because one phrase is stuck in my mind. How many days, how many days . . .
All of a sudden I feel completely unmoored. I have no idea how many days it’s been since Trent died. I don’t know when I stopped counting. I don’t know when I let go of that thing that grounded me in my grief, that reminded me each and every day. Like penance, for not going with him that morning, for not being with him on that road, for not being able to save him or say good-bye. And now I don’t even know how many days it’s been.
I lost count. Failed him again.
“Can we go in?” I say suddenly. “Please?” My chest hurts. I feel that old, familiar tightness, and I can’t breathe.
“Don’t you wanna wait to see if we can see it?” Colton asks.
“See what?” I ask. I’ve lost the thread of what he’s talking about. I can’t get enough air in my lungs—they’re forgetting how to breathe.
“The green flash,” Colton says, pointing to the sun that’s now halfway disappeared below the water and sinking fast.
“The what?”
“The green flash,” he says. “Watch. At that last second when the sun slips into the water, if everything is right, you can see it. Supposedly.” He smiles. “My grandpa used to have us watch for it, and every time, he’d tell us this old line about how if you see the green flash, you can see into people’s hearts.” Colton traces a finger over the water’s surface and laughs softly. “He swore he’d seen it, and that’s how he always knew what everyone was thinking.”
See into other people’s hearts.
My heart pounds with all the truth and lies and omissions that are in it. All the things I don’t want Colton to see. All the things I’ve been hiding from myself. I don’t even know what’s in my heart anymore.
“Watch,” Colton says again, pointing at the horizon. “It happens fast.”
We both turn back to the sun, a bright-orange ball sinking into the water that glows gold with its light. The sun does seem to accelerate, disappearing faster by the second. I panic. I want to look away; I want Colton to look away. I know it’s just a story, but I hold my breath as the sun slips down, and at the last second I look at Colton. He sits still, eyes focused hard on the horizon.
And then the sun’s gone.
He sighs. “No green flash tonight.”
I meet his eyes for a brief moment, then look out to the empty patch of sky where the sun almost laid bare my secrets, and it’s all I can do not to cry.
In my room, behind my closed door, I can’t hold it back anymore. My hands shake as I take my calendar from the wall and sit down on the floor with it. How could I have lost track? Which morning did I wake up and not think the number? Which night did I go to bed without Trent being my last thought?
I flip back through the months, to day 365, which is a date I could never forget. I put my finger to the little square that comes after it, but a sob shakes me, lets loose the tears I managed to hold back all the way home. Guilt pools in my stomach.
How did I lose count?
I wipe at my eyes and try to focus on the grid of empty boxes that were days empty of Trent, days I kept track of because it was one tiny way to hold on to him, to always know how long it had been, and I need to know again—
“What are you doing?” Ryan asks. I didn’t even hear her come in, but the second she sees me, she’s on her knees in front of me. “What’s wrong?”
I drop the calendar, put my head in my hands, and I sob.
“Quinn, hey, what’s going on?” Her voice is sympathetic, which makes it even worse.
I lift my head and look at her. “I don’t . . .” A fresh wave of tears comes on hard. “I don’t know how many days it’s been since he died, I lost count, and now I can’t remember, and I need to—” I gulp for air before another sob shakes me, and I put my head back in my hands.
Ryan’s arms come around me, and I feel her chin rest on my head. “Shhh . . . it’s okay. It’s okay,” she repeats, and I want to believe her, but she has no idea. “You don’t need to keep count,” she says softly.
I cry into my sister’s chest, the only reply I can manage.
“You don’t,” she says, gently pulling herself away so she can look at me. “It doesn’t make it any less important, or mean that you miss him any less.”
I press my lips together, shake my head. There are so many things she doesn’t know.
“It doesn’t,” she says, firmer now. “It’s going to happen, and it’s supposed to happen this way. You’re allowed to feel less pain, and you’re allowed to feel happy again.” She pauses. “You’re allowed to start living again—it’s not a betrayal to Trent. He’d want you to.”
A fresh wave of tears springs free at his name.
“What is this about?” she asks. “Is it about forgetting the number of days, or is it about Colton? Because you’ve spent every day together for the last two weeks, and you know what? You’ve been happy. You don’t need to feel guilty about that.”
“But it’s . . .”
“It’s a good thing,” Ryan says.
I want to believe her—and part of me does. Part of me knows she’s right, because I absolutely cannot deny the way it feels to be with Colton. But I also can’t deny the guilt that sits just below the surface every time I am. It seems like a betrayal to Trent to feel this way. And I know that keeping the whole thing from Colton is an even bigger betrayal. I stare at the calendar on the floor in front of me, each blank square a day that was equally as blank until I met him.
“Hey,” Ryan says, squeezing my shoulder. “You’re gonna have days and moments like this, when it all comes rushing back at you, and that’s okay. But you’re also going to have days, lots of them, when you feel good, and that’s okay too.” She tucks my hair behind my ear. “Believe it or not, you’ll even have a day when you fall in love again. But you have to open yourself up to it.”
I can tell she’s trying to catch my eye, but I keep my eyes focused on the calendar in my lap.
“You two loved each other so much, but you still have a whole life to live. You have to know Trent would want that for you again.”
I nod like she’s right, and wipe the tears from my cheeks, and look her right in the eyes and say, “I do,” but it’s not because I believe her. It’s because I need to be alone. Because if Trent could see me now, I don’t know if he’d want me to be doing this.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. . . . Who looks inside, awakes.”
—Carl Jung
I’M ALREADY AWAKE when my phone buzzes from the nightstand. I know it’s Colton calling to s
ay good morning and make plans for the day, but I hesitate instead of reaching for it. I didn’t explain myself after wanting to leave so abruptly yesterday, and he didn’t ask, but I know this can’t go on much longer—me having these mini-breakdowns and him just letting it go. Eventually, he’s going to ask for some sort of explanation, and I don’t know what I’ll do then. The phone stops buzzing and beeps a moment later with a voicemail.
“Quinn?” There’s a knock on my door. “You awake in there?” It’s my dad’s voice.
“I’m up,” I say, loud enough for him to hear me. “Come in.”
I sit up, and he opens the door but doesn’t come in. He just stands there in his running clothes, which is a surprise. It’s a weekday. “Morning, sunshine. Time to run.”
“Where’s Ryan?” I ask. After last night’s episode with my calendar, I’m a little wary of seeing her as well.
“She went off to paint,” Dad says, and I feel a flicker of relief. “Only has a few more days to make the deadline to submit her portfolio. She seems serious about it. Took all her stuff and said she wouldn’t be back until tonight.” He shrugs. “Anyway, she left me with strict orders to fill in as your running partner.”
“What about work?”
“Took the day off—one of the perks of being your own boss.” He claps his hands together. “Let’s get goin’.”
I nod, but I don’t move. The calendar is still on the floor next to my bed, and I still don’t know how many days it’s been. After Ryan left last night, I collapsed into bed, unable to do anything, let alone count the days.
“Don’t jump up all at once,” he says, his face falling a little.
I immediately feel bad. “I’m sorry, I just . . .” I still feel drained after last night. Heavy and hollow at the same time. “I don’t really feel like running today.”
My dad comes in now and sits on the end of my bed. “What about a breakfast run? Now’s our chance. Come on. You haven’t been around much lately. I wanna hear what’s new. Over bacon. And eggs. And biscuits and gravy.”
