Mr. Joe locks eyes with me. His eyes fill with tears, ones he doesn’t allow to fall. “Life is an adventure in forgiveness.” His voice breaks, and truth spills between his whispered words.
“Norman Cousins,” I reply, allowing a tear to fall. This time, I don’t push it away. I don’t push it down.
And it hits me all at one time.
In this moment, Mr. Joe forgives himself. Forgives the drunk driver who hit his wife. It is this act alone that makes me realize that I need to forgive, too. I need to forgive the shooter who killed my brother. I am not a victim of circumstance. I will not allow bitterness and anger to eat away at the future plans I have for myself. But, first, I must forgive myself.
I do. I let go of all of it.
If he can forgive, so can I.
Before this becomes a scene, I leave Mr. Joe and Morgan. There are no hugs exchanged, but a knowing of forgiveness is left in the little space of time we shared.
“Liv?” Mr. Joe tries to clear his throat as he calls after me.
“Yeah?” I turn back to them.
“Thank you.”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.” My fingers touch the air and fall in unison.
“Where do you want these?” Daniel opens Jasper’s closet.
“Hang on.” I brush past Daniel, give him a half-grin, and shut the closet door in his face.
Jasper, if you want me to keep your entire shoe collection, I will, or if you want me to give it to someone else, just give me a sign.
I hesitate before opening the door, and when I do, Daniel is still standing in the same position I left him, arms crossed, not surprised.
“I will never question why you do things the way you do them. I like you a bit strange.”
Still, I love his accent.
I brush against him to where my chest pushes against his, and he quietly sighs against me, pulling me to him.
I want to be touched by his hands only. And in places unspeakable and by his hand that slides down to the small of my back, sending an electric current up my spine. I rest my head on his chest to regain any composure I might have left in me.
My phone chimes, and the only reason I know it has chimed is because Daniel says so.
“What?”
“Your phone.”
“Oh.”
I gently push off the lower part of his stomach, wanting to savor my hand in that area, and Daniel does something between a half-laugh and groan.
“You do that again, Miss Stone, and you might not get away with your fingers next time,” he says, taking my hand and sliding his fingers through.
I look down at my phone, and it’s a text from Simon.
Simon: Ready 4 the shoes when you r.
Thanks, Jas.
“The shoes go to Simon.” I text Simon back and tell him to come get them.
Daniel stops but not for the reason I think he does.
“Don’t worry; there’s nothing there between him and me.” I don’t tell him that Simon came out to me while I was in rehab, only because it’s not my story to tell.
It’s not your job to right the world, Livia. It will right itself.
Daniel takes my waist in his hands. “I never worry about that, Liv.” He looks past me, into Jasper’s closet, at the box of shoes. “I’m just wondering how in the hell one chap owned this many pairs of shoes.”
“Yo! Anyone here?” Simon’s familiar knock sounds on Jasper’s open bedroom door. “Oh, hey. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
That was quick.
“I’m Daniel by the way.” He pushes the box to Simon and doesn’t reach for his hand.
“Simon.” He reaches for Daniel’s hand.
There’s an awkward exchange between the two, like a sort of changing of the guards. An unspoken agreement that Daniel is now to watch over me as Jasper used to. Daniel is three inches taller than Simon. He’s four inches taller than most boys our age. Then, there’s a slight nod between the two. An agreement reached. Settled.
Simon looks around Jasper’s room. “Wow. Bare,” he says. “Thanks for this.”
“Jasper wants you to have them.”
Simon meets my eyes. “When are you leaving for school?”
“Tomorrow.”
“All right then. Daniel, take care of her. She’s special,” he says as if he’s reciting the preamble to the Constitution.
Daniel doesn’t answer. He just reaches for me instead, proving that actions speak louder than words ever will.
Simon leaves, and Daniel and I finish Jasper’s room.
“What about this rucksack?”
I turn to Daniel, who is standing next to Jasper’s dresser. “What?” I laugh. “What is a rucksack?”
“This.” He holds it in the air.
“A backpack?”
“Right. A rucksack. Americans.” He playfully rolls his eyes.
“I’m going to keep it. Use it at Harvey.”
I pause because a memory comes to the front of my mind, and I need to share it because this is one of those moments when I struggle to breathe. “When Jasper was killed, I was terrified to ask the FBI for anything that Jasper had on his body that day. Because of”—I swallow the big knot in my throat—“the way in which he was killed.” I stop. “The blood, I guess.” I feel my face contort, just like my thoughts. I hate that I have to talk about my brother in ways that most people shouldn’t.
“One morning”—I cough to push down the tears—“I woke up, and there was this nagging voice in my head that said, Get my backpack. This was two weeks after Jasper died. The words stayed in my head all day long. So, I called Gina, our FBI victim’s specialist, the one who represented our family, and I asked if we could get Jasper’s belongings back. And, the next day, they were hand-delivered in a sterile clear bag.” I pause. “You know the weird thing?”
Daniel shakes his head as he takes a few steps toward me.
“There wasn’t a drop of blood on the backpack.” I smile because, today, I know that wasn’t my conscience telling me to get the backpack back; it was Jasper.
“My mum used to say that those who pass only give us messages when we’re ready for them.”
This time, I wrap my arms around his waist. “How’s your grief?”
“Fine.”
“No, it’s not. You’re lying.” I pull back and look into his eyes. “Has anyone told you what fine stands for?”
“I’m positive you’ll enlighten me.”
“Fucked up. Insecure. Neurotic. Emotional.”
“Well then, I guess I’m fine today. Fits about right.”
I feel his slow, confident, deep laugh against my ear as he takes his hands and runs his fingertips against my bare arms.
“Come on. Let’s take the bags to the donation drop-off.”
We load the stuff in back of my dad’s old Ford that he uses for yard clippings and dump runs. I stare out the window as Daniel drives to Miranda’s Rescue. Jasper would have wanted us to donate his clothes. Everything, except for his Vans. Those were always meant for Simon.
A feeling of calm comes over me as the realization hits. I think Jasper didn’t survive that day because he would have seen things that were too much to live with. That his soft, kind heart wouldn’t have been able to handle it, and his time here on Earth wouldn’t have been good because of what he’d seen. And maybe God needed him more than I did. Though what happened that day won’t always be clear, I have peace in my heart, knowing that I don’t have to drink or use to cover up my feelings today and that my sweet Jasper is at peace.
As for Daniel and me, who knows if our relationship will stand the test of life? Though I have high hopes for us. The point is that there’s no permanence in life. Nothing stays the same forever. Though there are moments I wish it would, like this one right here, with the cool winter air breathing down our necks, his hand in mine. And, if we don’t make it through the ups and downs, the twists and turns that life has to offer, it will be all right. I will be okay.
&n
bsp; For I have found Livia Stone, standing sideways but nevertheless found.
Seven Years Later
Belle’s Hollow
“Mommy, who’s this?”
We unpack the last box with Jasper’s picture.
“That was your uncle.” I take the picture, remembering all the ways he’d change a picture by the faces he made.
“You mean, the one who stands in the corner of my room at night?”
Goose bumps imprint on my skin, over my entire body. I look to Daniel and then back to our daughter. “What did you say, baby?”
“Yeah, him and Grandma Rose. They watch me at night.”
I can’t breathe. “Does-does it scare you, Rose?” I feel my heart surge and my mouth go dry. I believe fear and faith can be experienced at the exact same time because this moment, right now, consists of both.
She smiles. “No, Mama. Grandma Rose sings to me, and Jas—” Rose looks to me.
“Jasper,” I clarify.
“Japper says I’m tough like Mimi.”
The hair on my neck stands at attention. I look to my husband standing above me. “I’ve never told her that nickname before.”
“Sorry we’re late!” Cao and her husband, Ed, come dashing through the front door. “Since when did we get another traffic light in Belle’s?” She kisses Rose and me on the cheeks. Cao stops and looks around the room. “Wait, did we interrupt something?”
Daniel speaks because he knows I can’t, “Rose was just telling us that Jasper and Grandma Rose come visit her in her room at night.”
Cao kneels down next to Rose. “You know what I think?”
“What, Aunt Choo-Choo?” Rose looks up with her big blue eyes.
“I believe, when people go to heaven, it takes a special person with a big heart to see them and feel things that others can’t. Just like your mama.”
I’m not blown away by Cao’s response, coming from a science- and math-based person who graduated from Caltech, who is now a talented engineer, because she believes more in love than in science. Just like she believed more in me than what I was doing with my life eight short years ago. And, although she didn’t end up marrying Ed Sheeran, Ed Wattenberg is a close second. He’s Jewish, and he celebrates Hanukkah, Christmas, and Lent. And he writes music and plays the guitar. They met at Caltech during Cao’s senior year. While they don’t have kids, it’s not because they don’t want them. Cao says she’s not ready until they can agree upon a name.
Rose’s name was easy for us.
Rose Jasper Pearson.
I walk into my normal Tuesday night meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous, my father beside me.
The odd thing is, we got sober on the same date, just eighteen months apart. Happenstance? I think not. We’ve mended bridges, my dad and me. And all we can ask for is one day at a time.
I get the coffee while he gets the seats.
Looking back, I’m not sure if Poppy was a figment of my imagination or if what I saw and heard was real. Grief makes us do funny things. But, whatever she was or whatever I thought she was, she came at a time I needed her most. She has yet to come back since that day at the hospital. I believe that, when people pass on, they give us signs that they’re still with us.
Jasper comes to me through different avenues. Music. My daughter. And not only that, but a day has yet to pass where I don’t notice a pair of Vans. Whether it’s in a store window, someone has them on, or I’m tripping over a pair.
When we brought Rose home from the hospital, there was a package on the porch. It was a pink pair of Vans, just her tiny little size. And, every year, on her birthday, the box appears again, though the pink Vans are a size bigger. My sneaking suspicion is it’s Simon.
The door to the meeting opens, and a frail girl with dark circles under her eyes and bleached hair, uncombed with different lengths, enters. She’s all but swallowed by the big, bulky sweatshirt she’s wearing. The untold stories, the ones I used to hide behind, are buried deep within the confines of the pain I see in her eyes. I see the shame that she bears, like she wants to run, especially because we know each other.
It’s a small, small town after all.
I hand my coffee to my dad. “Hold this, would you?”
And I walk to the front door, take her by her shaking hand, and say, “Come on, Whitney. I have a spot just for you, next to me.”
It’s in the quiet moments in time, when the world is silent, that we know we’re right where we’re meant to be.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I keep it on hand for Daniel, just in case there’s an emergency with Rose. It’s a text from my agent, Hattie Mathers. We’ve been waiting on some news. I tell Whitney I’m going to get her some tea, and as I make it to the pot of hot water, I open the text.
Call me. Now. World Pictures wants to sign a major motion picture deal for the book.
But some things can wait.
I’m right where I’m supposed to be.
I close the text and do the next right thing. I take the tea to Whitney, and the meeting begins.
THE END
Writing this book was the hardest one yet, the most personal one to date.
On October 1, 2015, nine people were killed in the Umpqua Community College shooting. My cousin, Jason Johnson, was one of them. This book is a personal journey through my own grief, although, a lot of it is fiction, there’s a lot that isn’t fiction.
Many times, I wanted to walk away from Standing Sideways, too hard to feel through all the emotions all over again. It broke my husband’s heart to watch his wife feel through the process, sometimes, in the dark. It brought out the ugliness in me, the sadness, the suffering, the hurt, but in the end, it brought the healing.
Before I give my thanks to people who made this book possible, I want to talk about the dried roses.
At Jason's funeral, after we followed his casket out, and right before they loaded his body and took it away to the place of cremation, Jennifer, an employee from the funeral home, took a rose from his casket and handed to me and said with tears in her eyes: I'm so, so sorry for your loss. I know that particular funeral home had to do many funerals that week due to the tragedy. To this day, the dried rose Jennifer gave me sits on the dashboard of my car. It's to remind me of the many, many lives lost to mass shootings—there are still traces of their beauty—we just need to be open to see it.
Standing Sideways would not be possible if it weren’t for the following people:
Hang Le, your book covers amaze me. When I saw the cover for the first time, it made me cry. Thank you for bringing this book to life.
Jovana Shirley, you are a master at what you do. Your passion, your attention to detail, your support, your dedication is unparalleled. Thank you for making Standing Sideways shine.
Julie Deaton, your eagle eye goes far beyond the words of this book. Your final touches (and your sweet comments) made my heart soar.
Cassie Graham, thank you for our candid conversation that night about the book. Wink. Wink. It was you who was supposed to tell me the words I needed to hear.
Devney Perry, my dear friend and fellow author, without your guidance, and sharing your wealth of knowledge in the self-publishing world, I’d be lost. I adore you.
My beta readers: Julie Hagemann, Dana Barrote, Karyn Clark, Abbey Pearson, Chandra Moomey, and Heidi Payne. Thank you for your candidness, your tears, and honest feedback. Your time is important and I appreciate you giving up that time with your family, your hobbies, your life, to read Standing Sideways.
Fisher Van Duzen, you, my dear, will always be a treasure. I’m eternally grateful for you and your feedback in more ways than one.
Poorhouse Publishing, thank you for your donation of the ISBN numbers, knowing all proceeds of this book will be going towards Jason’s scholarship.
Dawn Newton, Jason’s girlfriend, you gave me encouragement even when you may not have known it. You said, “Jason was so proud of you for the book thing and he loved you so much.” It gave me the
push I needed to finish writing the book.
Trina Pockett, Julie Hagemann, Kim Emmons, Faith Hansen, Kelly Losey, and Heather Barkdull, you picked me up off the floor after Jason died. You listened. You brought food for my family. You were present. These actions I will never forget.
To my community, the small, small town of ‘Belle’s Hollow’, you’ve always supported my writing endeavors since they came to fruition, thank you.
Teyler and Kate, my beautiful children, you remind me how precious life is. I love you both more than you will ever know.
Last and most importantly, my husband Brandon, you are my rock, my voice of reason. I cannot be who I am without you. You are my Daniel. For the last twenty plus years together, you still make me laugh. Still give me the butterflies. And love me warts and all. You’ve had my heart since I was seventeen and always will. Thanks for putting up with me for all these years!
To the families of the survivors and victims of the Umpqua community College shooting:
May we all have the grace, faith, and trust that our loved ones did on that awful day, to stand in our own truths, to be brave.
Thank you for reading Standing Sideways.
If you enjoyed this book, please leave an honest review on Amazon and Goodreads. By leaving a review, it makes Standing Sideways more visible to more readers. The more reviews, the better promotional opportunities for the author.
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ALL the profits from Standing Sideways will go toward the Jason Dale Triumphant Return Scholarship at College of the Redwoods. This means I don’t make a dime off this book. So, please, if you loved the book, share it. For more information on Jason’s scholarship, click here.
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Alcoholism doesn't care how old you are. What color. Ethnicity. Faith. Occupation. It will rob you of your dignity, self-respect, and your life.
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