When the last note fell silent, a deafening roar filled the air, blocking out even the drone of the helicopters. The press rushed forward wielding microphones, but Mick pushed through them to reach Summer and me. The three of us came together in a hug.
Mick ruffled my hair; I could just hear him over the crowd. “You did it. He’s gone.”
I threw my fist in the air and hooted. For a few hours I’d been able to forget my own impending end, and, I thought, as I stood there with my fist in the air and remembered, it had been time well-spent.
CHAPTER 38
An hour later, Grandpa took over. I was grateful to the cosmos that I’d gotten a good four hours, enough to see Mick’s glorious concert to the end. Now I returned to my own struggle, clinging to my body as Grandpa went about planning his new life.
I, on the other hand, went about planning my death.
If I was going to die, I decided I would at least choose the time and place. It wasn’t an idle decision; I knew I would spend decades wherever I slipped out.
The idea of that, the hard truth of it, rattled me to the bones. My time was almost up.
I tried to calm myself so I could think, but all I could think about was that place where all of the color drains out of your eyes. I dragged my thoughts back to the matter at hand. Where did I want to be?
Gilly had been lucky, slipping back into Deadland on the roof, where his life’s ambition had been realized.
It would be nice to have company. Maybe I could end up near Summer. It would be comforting to have Summer with me. I was further gone than her, though, so unless she made a point of dying in the same place as me, I couldn’t make it work.
I’d much rather be outdoors. The thought of spending decades in an apartment, like Annie, depressed the hell out of me. Better to see trees, water.
Maybe the ocean.
It came to me with a clarity bordering on prescience. I should die beside Kayleigh, on that pier overlooking the ocean. It was perfect—twins reunited, the timeless ocean. There couldn’t be much of Kayleigh left, but maybe there was something. We could mix and blow away together.
I pushed the image away. Thinking about it was like falling into a damp, dark well. That’s what disturbed me most—being swept off a crumb at a time. I would be far more comfortable with an afterlife that involved staying whole.
I wasn’t sure if this plan was even possible; Tybee Beach was a three-hour drive, if I drove like mad. I was getting three or four hours tops, and less each time.
If I was going to do it, I had to do it the next time I was in control. As Grandpa drank, cut-and-pasted strips, and began getting back in touch with a few of his old friends, I made a mental to-do list so when I next took control I could spring into action.
CHAPTER 39
I came back to myself, probably for the very last time. I was a little drunk. That was a good thing; it took the edge off the terror I felt, contemplating this as my last day on Earth. There was no turning back, though. I had decided. I grabbed a bottle of water and headed to the Maserati, praying I could make it to Tybee in time.
As I drove I had to keep wrapping my mind around what was transpiring. It was over. I couldn’t believe it.
What would Grandpa do now? Would he live out his life claiming to be me, or insisting he was himself? Would he marry and father children? If he did father children, would I be the biological father, or would he? Imagining my body carrying on in the world without me was like trying to picture two objects occupying the same space. I was dying, and I was not.
Fifteen minutes into the trip I realized I had overlooked a painfully obvious detail. The quarantine. I rolled to a stop in front of a roadblock on 1-75. A National Guardsman around my age, a pistol strapped at his waist, squatted as I lowered the electric window.
“Do you have transmittal papers?” he asked. Then his eyes brightened. “Hey, you’re the Toy Shop guy.”
I offered my hand through the window. “Finn Darby.”
He turned as he shook, called, “Hey, it’s the Toy Shop guy.”
Another uniform-clad guard came over, a chubby woman in her twenties, carrying a rifle. “You draw Toy Shop?” she asked.
“I do, yeah,” I said. “Listen.” I propped an arm on the steering wheel and leaned out the window, trying to channel my inner Mick. “Can you help me out? I’ve got business I need to get to, but I don’t have any papers.” I held out my empty hands.
They looked at each other; the woman shrugged. Grinning, the guy said, “Will you draw a couple of Wolfies first?”
I sketched my last two Wolfies, asked my new friends their names, inscribed the drawings to them, and I was on my way.
Fame. It didn’t suck. If only I was going to be around to enjoy it.
Ten minutes later I thought of something else that hadn’t occurred to me while I was planning my swan song. Grandpa would turn right around and head back to the city as soon as he took control. He wasn’t going to hang around the pier on Tybee for even a second to wait for me to exit. Even if I threw my car keys and wallet off the pier, it would make it harder for him to get home, but it wouldn’t keep him on the pier.
For the thousandth time I silently cursed my son of a bitch grandfather. Then, on second thought, I cursed him out loud so he could hear me.
I needed to lock myself to a bench or something. Handcuffs would be perfect, but I didn’t know where to buy them. I tried to picture the pier—were there benches? If not, the railing might work. Had it been made of metal or wood? If it was wood Grandpa might be able to knock the rail out where it was joined. The surest thing would be to lash myself to a piling under the pier, but then I’d be in the water...
An idea occurred to me. A sneaky idea. Heart hammering, I ran it over and over in my mind, examining it for flaws. When I couldn’t find any I went over it again, deciding if I really wanted to do it, and if I had the guts.
Yes, and yes, I decided.
I called information and got the tide line for Tybee. High tide would be in six hours. Perfect.
There was a Home Depot near the exit to Forest Park. Tires squealing, I flew into the parking lot. Inside I jogged up the lock aisle and grabbed a twenty-foot-length of chain and their best padlock.
Back on the road, I brought up Summer’s number, wondering if it would be Summer or Lorena who answered. I punched the number. The rings built one on top of another, then the familiar click as I was transferred to voicemail. I chuckled at the irony.
“Hi,” I said after the beep. “Hi Lorena and Summer. I’m about out of time. I don’t want to wonder each time I get a few hours if it will be my last, so I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands. I’m going to the spot where my sister died, and—” And what? Kill myself? That wasn’t right. “I’m going to stay with Kayleigh. Summer—” I hesitated again, I didn’t want Lorena to hear what I wanted to say. I decided it was too important to leave unsaid. “In a couple of weeks, if you find yourself in the same situation, maybe you’ll decide to join me. I’m guessing Kayleigh won’t be very good company by now. It would be nice to have a friend. My mother can show you where I am, if you decide to come.” I choked up, as the weight of what I was doing hit me afresh. I would never see my mother again. “I love you, Lorena. I love you, Summer.” The tears came in a flood. “Goodbye,” I managed to choke before disconnecting.
I took a few deep breaths, wiped my eyes with the back of my wrist. I had more calls to make.
When I’d pulled myself together sufficiently I called Mick’s land line. He answered on the second ring.
“Hey. I’m in the car.”
“Where you headed?” Mick asked.
“Savannah. Tybee Island. I’m going to be with my sister.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then, finally, in a strangled voice he said, “I’m sorry, mate. I’d trade places with you if I could. I swear I would.”
“I know you would. Hey, my last months were so much better for knowing you. Thanks.”
“I know. I don’t want to blow away and forget myself.”
“I won’t forget you, if that’s any comfort.”
“It is. Thanks.” But I was way beyond comforting.
I told Mick I needed to call my mom. We said our final goodbye, and the phone went dead. I called Mom.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Just taking a drive. Clearing my head.” She’d understand why I didn’t tell her the truth, once she got over the shock and grief. There was simply no way to spare her that grief, but I could delay it for a few hours.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“Not so good, Mom. I don’t think I can hang on much longer.”
Mom sniffled into the phone. “I know you’re trying, sweetie. Hang on.” She took a big, shuddering breath. “He swears he can’t help what’s happening. Is that really true?”
I was tempted to lie, but if everything went as planned, I’d have the last laugh anyway. “Yes, I think he’s telling the truth.”
I wondered what it had been like for her, growing up with Tom Darby as her dad. She’d told me stories. Some of them were typical Grandpa, others surprised me. Grandpa used to take her fishing, just the two of them. And he spent money on her behind Grandma’s back.
“Come and stay here with me for a while,” Mom said.
“Maybe I will. I will, if I’m still here.”
The Maserati’s engine whined as I leaned on the gas even harder. Ahead there was nothing but grass, trees, and a line of concrete that disappeared in the distance.
Somehow Mom had managed to retain Grandma and Grandpa’s mental toughness without losing her warmth. She was kind of like Summer in that way.
“Mom, can I ask you something?”
“Anything, sweetie.”
“Do you think Lorena was the right woman for me? Were we...I don’t know, were we meant to be together?”
She blew out another big breath. “It’s hard for me to say.”
“Mom, just tell me. I want to know what you really think.” I passed a big log truck like it was standing still.
“I love you. I love Lorena. You’re both wonderful people.”
“But.”
“But I don’t think she was perfect for you. She was the kite, and you held the string. You didn’t get to do much of the flying.”
Her words surprised me. I’d seen it; it wasn’t like I hadn’t, but I’d never thought it was a problem. “I’d always thought of myself as a string holder. I felt lucky to have such a fabulous kite.”
Mom laughed at the metaphor. “You’re not just a string holder, though. Sometimes you’re a string holder, sometimes you’re a kite. You’re a good balance that way.”
I wished Mom had met Summer. I wanted to ask if she thought Summer and I would have been a good match. I already knew the answer to that, though.
I wished I could tell Summer.
I didn’t want to say goodbye, didn’t want to face the empty car hurtling me toward my death, but we’d said what we needed to say. It was time to say goodbye, or raise Mom’s suspicions.
When we hung up, the road was deathly quiet, save for the thunk of the tires running over the grooves in the pavement.
“I’ll give up Toy Shop. Is that what you want? I’ll bring Little Joe back. I’ll print an apology and discontinue the strip.”
No answer, of course.
I was back to bargaining, the third stage in the dying process. I hadn’t realized you could move backward; I thought once you finished a stage that was it. I had been in the depression stage, and thought I’d been moving closer to acceptance with every mile I covered, but here I was bargaining again. Even if Grandpa had some control over what was happening, and all signs suggested he did not, why would he bargain now? He’d won. At least, he thought he’d won. I shut my mouth, resolved to follow this through in silence.
What was it Krishnapuma had written about dying? It had been strangely comforting when I read it.
You’re not forgetting yourself, you’re remembering. You’re just a tiny sliver that has split off and forgotten it’s part of something much bigger. This journey is about remembering. It’s all part of the dance.
I sobbed. I didn’t want to remember yet. In fifty years I might embrace it. Maybe it would be comforting to understand what was happening. But I had a lot of time left, or I was supposed to. Right now I didn’t want to take the ultimate journey into the godhead; I wanted the mundane things, the day-to-day. My work. My friends. Summer.
I tried Summer again. Still got her voicemail. I pushed the Maserati harder.
CHAPTER 40
I barely recognized Tybee Beach. The seedy bars had been replaced by upscale surf shops, rooming houses by giant condos on stilts. Heart pounding, I sought familiar landmarks. The street names were no help; I didn’t remember which street Grandpa’s house had been on, and none of them were familiar.
A cold ocean wind cut through my leather jacket as I trotted up and down the boardwalk clutching a Home Depot bag, past bicycle rental kiosks and custard stands, all shuttered for the winter. Piers jutted over the grey water every tenth of a mile or so, abandoned save for the occasional weekend fisherman. They all looked the same.
I tried to reel myself back to the days when this boardwalk was a second home to Kayleigh and me. We’d fly kites here—triangular black bats with long yellow tails. Once we’d built a fort underneath the wood planks and giggled as people walked by, unaware of us. We lived on French fries and fried dough served on paper plates, salt-water taffy that stuck to the paper wrappers.
Was she still under that pier? Where was that pier? I could see it so clearly in my mind’s eye, but I had no idea where along the beach it was. I scanned the boardwalk.
Beyond an ice cream shop, a patch of open space caught my eye. It was a miniature golf course with a pirate theme. The neon sign—Blackboard Golf—was new, but the course wasn’t. Grandpa’s rooming house had been on the street directly behind Blackbeard Golf, the pier fifty yards to the left down the boardwalk.
“I bet you recognized it long before I did,” I whispered. I slowed, my steps thudding hollowly on the wood planks. The cold ocean wind reminded me of the wind in Deadland, the wind that worked on you like sandpaper.
We had the pier all to ourselves. Green wooden benches lined the low railing on both sides, with ornate lampposts running along the center. The benches were familiar but I was sure the lampposts were a recent addition. The pier stretched out fifty yards or so, the planks thinning to lines.
When I reached the end of the pier I looked into the white water crashing against posts covered in green slime. Anyone passing would have seen a lone man, but there were three of us here. At least. Who could say how many souls had drowned off this pier?
Who could say how many more would follow?
I backtracked off the pier, found stairs leading down to the beach. Hunched against the cold wind, I following the knobby beams, canted this way and that, supporting the pier.
I stopped at the edge of the surf, watched a little white bird race in and out with the waves, plucking unseen things from under the wet sand.
There was no point in putting it off; every minute increased the chance that Grandpa would take over and wreck my plans. I pushed into the foamy white water. It was freezing.
“You want to play, old man? Let’s play.”
It was my body. I could do what I wanted with it.
A wave rolled in. I turned sideways and set my feet; it crashed into my thigh with numbing force. I surged on, my teeth chattering, exhaling in breathless puffs until I reached the end of the pier. The water was waist-deep.
I pulled out the chain and padlock, allowed the waves to sweep away the plastic bag.
The tug of the surf was so powerful I could barely keep my footing as I pressed my back to a post, fumbled with the chains, wrapping the
m around and around, lashing myself to the post, my hands throbbing, my toes numb.
“How do you like me now, you old bastard?” I shouted, my throat raw. It wouldn’t be murder. No one would blame me. I pulled the chain tight, pushed the padlock through two links and snapped it closed. Clutching the key I tested my work; I squatted, jumped, pulled, squeezed. The chains held right—there was no way he could break free.
I tossed the key into the water, watched it disappear with a tiny plunk.
It wasn’t a perfect plan. Someone might come along the beach and call the police. If I was still in control I would wave them off, tell them it was one of those charity things—that I had to stay chained to the post until my friends donated a thousand dollars for cerebral palsy research. I would tell them who I was. Hey, I’m sort of famous, I’m allowed to do crazy things.
For the first time, though, I was hoping Grandpa would take over sooner rather than later. The plan was for me to be long gone by the time the tide came in and this freezing water filled my lungs. Once Grandpa took over he’d call for help. Hopefully no one would hear him, or they wouldn’t be able to cut him loose in time. Then the three of us would blow away together, with me chuckling until my mouth was gone. If not, if he made it out, then bully for him, he would win another fifty years of life.
“Eighty-six years you had. You couldn’t let it go at that. You had to take my years, too.”
My phone rang. I fished it out of my jacket.
“Where are you?” It was Summer.
“The beach.” I left out the part about being waist-deep in the water, chained to a post.
“What beach? What are you doing at the beach?”
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