Everything You Are: A Novel

by Kerry Anne King

  Allie surveys the possibilities and nods toward an elderly couple holding hands at the railing. “Them.”

  “He’s got cancer. They’re taking this one last day together, and then he’s going to swallow a bunch of pills and take himself out.”

  “Oh my God!” Allie stares at him. “That’s awful.”

  “Is it? What’s yours?”

  “It’s their anniversary. They love each other. They’re going to Whidbey to visit the grandkids.”

  “Fairy tale,” Ethan says. “Okay, now that little kid over there.”

  Allie watches the toddler running back and forth between two adults, laughing out loud as if this is the most amazing game in the world. He clutches a bear in one hand. The adults have dark hair, his is blond.

  “He’s being adopted,” she says. “The bear is all he has left of his birth parents. But these people are so excited to have him and love him already.”

  “I’ll give you that,” Ethan says. “Only, about five minutes from now, they hug each other because they’re so happy, and in the minute when they’re not looking, the kid climbs up on the railing and falls into the water and drowns.”

  “Stop it!” Allie exclaims. “Let the kid be happy.”

  “We’re born, we live, we die. Shit happens. It’s an ugly world; you think there’s some magic protection for kids?”

  Allie wants there to be. But then, she wants some sort of magic protection for herself, some way to unravel heartbreak and tragedy. She wants to play the cello again, she wants to be right with her father.

  She wants Trey and her mother back and alive.

  “You of all people should be beyond rose-colored glasses, Allie.”

  “I just want it to be different, is all.”

  “It hurts less when you just accept that it sucks. Come on. We’re almost there.”

  She follows him back down to the bike, and they don’t talk while the ferry docks and unloads. Once they’re away from the terminal, the traffic thins and they have the road almost to themselves. When the bike picks up speed, Allie immerses herself in the experience. It’s like nothing else exists. The thundering bike beneath her, her arms tight around Ethan’s waist, the wind on her face. Off and on, there are glimpses of the water.

  But then, on a straightaway, Ethan veers over into the opposite lane.

  Allie thinks maybe he hasn’t noticed the oncoming car. Her arms tighten around his waist. He leans forward, revs the engine, and accelerates. Fear and wind steal her breath. She wants to beat on his shoulder but can’t seem to move to release her hands. The car is hurtling toward them, and Allie braces herself, horribly aware of how exposed they are. No seat belts, no metal framework.

  She can see the driver’s face, a woman, sees her eyes widen, her mouth open in what looks like a scream as the car brakes and begins to skid. Allie hides her face against Ethan’s shoulder. She doesn’t want to see the moment of impact. The bike swerves sharply to the right. Her head comes up, eyes wide open. They are back in their own lane, traveling smoothly along as if they’ve always been here. She manages to gulp in air, one breath and then another. Her body is vibrating from head to toe.

  Ethan pumps one fist up in the air. His shoulders are shaking, and she realizes he’s laughing.

  Allie isn’t having fun anymore. When he finally turns off into a parking lot beside a beach, she’s off the bike the instant it comes to a stop. Her quivering knees will hardly hold her. Helpless tears roll down her cheeks.

  “What are you doing?” she screams at him, her voice breaking on the words.

  The laughter fades from his face. “Hey,” he says. “Hey. It’s okay.”

  He takes a step toward her and she backs away, keeping distance between them.

  “We’re fine.” He looks bewildered. “We were never in any real danger, Allie.”

  “You’re sick! Death isn’t some sort of stupid joke. It’s not funny!” She’s sobbing, knows her face is all screwed up and her makeup running, but she doesn’t care anymore.

  “Of course it’s not funny.”

  Ethan puts his arms around her, tries to gather her to him. She presses the palms of her hands against his chest and holds him back.

  “Don’t you touch me.”

  “Allie. I wasn’t laughing at you, or even trying to scare you. It’s . . . exhilarating, playing with death. Don’t you see?”

  She doesn’t see. Not in the slightest.

  His face goes patient. He lets go of her and reaches for her helmet, unbuckling the chin strap, pulling it off her head.

  Wind blows through her sweat-dampened hair, cool and wonderful, at the same time as the sun warms her. The sky is an incredible blue. She can hear the music in the car tires, the way every one is different, hears the wind playing a lament.

  “You see it, don’t you? Feel it, hear it? Don’t answer. I can tell you do. A brush with death makes me feel alive for a minute. Come on.”

  She follows his lead down a trail that takes them to a beach. Ethan heads for a driftwood log, high up on the dry sand. Allie follows, still at a distance.

  “Don’t be mad,” he says, patting the space beside him.

  She finds herself yielding. He’s right. She feels alive, wide awake. He didn’t mean to hurt her, he was sharing something with her, something important to him.

  When her phone chimes, she wants to ignore it, but she can’t. The last time she ignored her phone, tragedy happened. She’s compelled to look at every single text that comes in, to listen to every voice mail. She hasn’t been answering them, but she looks.

  While she was on the motorcycle, the text messages have escalated to mega drama.

  Aunt Alex: Are you okay? Is your father drinking?

  Aunt Alex: I worry. Let me know you’re okay.

  Aunt Alex: Do I need to call DSHS? Maybe the police to do a welfare check?

  “My aunt has gone insane,” Allie says. She texts back: I’m fine! Dad’s sober. I’m in the middle of an exam! Call soon.

  Honesty, apparently, is part of the Allie that was.

  “I threw my phone away,” Ethan says. “Into the ocean. The fucking thing was a time suck. Here we are in this beautiful place. Together. And your aunt is here with us.”

  “My dad would have a fit if I got rid of my phone.” Allie has no way of knowing if this is true, but it works as an excuse.

  “He’s probably tracking you with it. Parents do that, you know.”

  “Pretty sure he’s not.”

  “You never know. You won’t believe how freeing it is to unplug. Want me to chuck it for you?”

  Allie’s fingers tighten around the phone. “I can’t.”

  Ethan shrugs. “Whatev. You wanna be glued to that thing, feel free.”

  “I’m not glued to it. Just need to check some messages real quick, and then I’ll put it away. Okay?”

  In addition to Aunt Alex, there are about twenty texts from Steph, which is really about normal for the course of a day.

  Steph: Chemistry. J just broke beakers & created fire. Thinks he’s the fire god now.

  Steph: Exam Friday. Study date?

  Steph: Worried. You okay?

  Steph: Dude. It’s been, like, hours. Check in.

  Allie answers with another lie: Ethan took me home, hanging with dad. take notes for me

  Steph: k. will bring notes over after school

  Allie: nah, still weird with me and dad. maybe weekend?

  Steph: test Friday, remember?

  Allie: fuck the test

  A pause follows this response, and then:

  Steph: you’re being weird. are you, like, suicidal or some shit?

  Allie: OMG no. study Wednesday then. promise

  While Allie texts, she watches Ethan take off his shoes and socks and set them neatly side by side next to the driftwood log. He makes a disgusted noise.

  “Seriously. Let me make a free woman out of you. Let’s feed your phone to the fish.”

  Allie barely hears him.
Trey’s unanswered messages are staring up at her, accusing. Also the ones from her mother.

  She’s read them a hundred times, but it never gets easier than the first time. Her hand is locked around the phone. It’s the only thing that exists in the world, the only thing that matters. No more Ethan. No more ocean. No sand. Just Mom dead and Trey dead and the knowledge that it’s all her fault.

  “Allie?” Ethan’s voice breaks through the void. “Allie.”

  His hand is over hers, prying her fingers loose. Taking the phone. She hides her face in her hands, waiting for him to read the story of her guilt.

  “Oh God, Allie.”

  His arms go around her, warm, but the heat can’t touch her because she is made of glass. She can’t move. Can’t anything. The guilt feels like a boulder in her chest. Boulders and glass. Not a good combination. Any moment now she’s going to break, going to shatter into a million pieces.

  “God,” Ethan says again. “That’s some serious shit.”

  His voice sounds far away, like it belongs in another universe. Allie isn’t breathing. Her heart isn’t beating. Glass doesn’t breathe, of course. Doesn’t have a heartbeat, or blood.

  She can see, now, as if she’s behind a camera lens. The driftwood tangled together. The sky. The waves in their endless, repetitive rhythm, breaking on the shore. Seagulls.

  A slant of light strikes blue highlights out of Ethan’s hair as he gets up and walks toward the surf.

  He’s still got her phone in his hand.

  His steps speed up, his stride lengthens into a run. She tries to scream after him, but the wind snatches away her voice.

  It turns out she’s not glass after all. She runs after him, but it’s like running in a dream. The sand drags at her feet, slows her down. She’s only halfway across the expanse of the beach when she sees him come to a standstill. His arm, the one attached to the hand that holds her phone, draws back and then snaps forward.

  The phone catches the light as it arcs up and out and then down. The crest of a wave reaches up for it, engulfs it, pulls it under.

  “No!” Allie’s scream tears something loose inside of her. Her feet hit the icy water, but she keeps running, sending spray up all around her. She drops to her knees, feeling around frantically, stupidly, as if it’s not lost forever, as if it would still work if she found it.

  Ethan’s arms clamp around her like a vise and he hauls her up onto her feet. She kicks and struggles, blind and crazed, fingernails raking over his face. Her knee connects with some part of his body that elicits an outrush of air and a grunt from him. Still he doesn’t let her go, dragging her back up onto the sand.

  Sobs crash through her, as relentless as the waves. They are going to tear her apart. She can’t survive this. Her legs won’t hold her, but Ethan keeps her upright. “It’s okay,” he tells her, over and over and over. “It will pass.”

  Miraculously, it does. The intensity eases. The tears slow. She feels hollowed out inside, which is better than the giant boulder. Sensation returns to her body, the cold wind whipping through her soaking clothes making her shiver at the same time as sunlight warms her. Ethan’s body presses against hers. She lets her cheek settle against his chest, feeling it rise and fall with his breath.

  “Better?” he asks.

  Not better, exactly. Different. Lighter, as if the wind could lift her and carry her up to ride the sky with the seagulls. Free, even. There is nothing to hold her, nothing to tie her down. Nothing matters. Her own life doesn’t matter. No ties, no consequences.

  Suddenly she is laughing. Ethan laughs, too, and spins her around.

  “You’re shivering,” he says then. “Let’s get you warm.”

  He carries her, still laughing like a wild thing, up onto the dry sand to where the hill shelters them from the wind and the sun can warm her. He sits her down, as if she’s a child, on the driftwood log, and then fetches his jacket and drapes it around her shoulders.

  “What?” he asks, in answer to the look she gives him.

  “You’re different than I expected, is all.”

  “Don’t you dare blow my reputation.” He sits down beside her, digs in the pocket of the jacket, and comes up with a lighter, a pipe, and a little baggie of weed.

  He fills the pipe, lights up. “Does this restore my street cred?”

  “I dunno. Maybe?”

  “Wanna try?”

  Allie considers. Her life has been structured and controlled up until now. The one time she broke the rules, it ended in tragedy. But she’s got nothing to lose. Her mother is beyond being hurt. Her past life seems to belong to somebody else. Now she’s the girl who killed her family, who doesn’t care about anything.

  “Why not?”

  She inhales deeply. The smoke burns her throat and sets her coughing.

  “You’ll get used to it,” Ethan says. “Try again.”

  When she hesitates, he grins. “Gonna take more than that to get you high.”

  “Why?” she asks, taking another hit, shallower this time. It still burns, but not quite so much.

  “Why what?”

  Why anything, really, but what she wants to know is more specific. “Why me? Why now? You’ve never talked to me before the funeral.”

  “I like you.”

  “You could have liked me all year.”

  He takes the pipe out of her hands and inhales deeply, then forgets to give it back. His gaze is fixed out over the ocean.

  “My dad killed himself. When I was fourteen.”

  “Oh my God. That’s horrible. I’m sorry.”

  He shrugs. “Long time ago.”

  “Not that long.” The words feel strange leaving her lips, slow and heavy. The whole world seems to have slowed down. The waves have a pattern she hadn’t noticed before. Three smaller ones, followed by a bigger one, and the sunlight reflecting on the water is a wonder.

  “I still don’t get why you brought me here.”

  “It’s a thing in common,” he says. “I needed . . .” His voice drifts off.

  “So this is what—a club? Grief ‘R’ Us?”

  He laughs. “Survivors Anonymous? Guilty as Charged? The thing is, the other kids don’t get it, right? They don’t have a clue. And I do like you, so I hope you don’t take that all wrong.”

  Allie considers. This girl Ethan wants to hang out with isn’t the real Allie, it’s Grief Allie, this stranger she has turned into. Nothing to lose, she reminds herself. She might as well go with it.

  His arm still rests on her shoulders.

  “Cool,” she says. “Again, not what I was expecting.”

  “Which was what, exactly?”

  She shrugs, feels heat rising to her cheeks, and says what she would never have said before. “Sex, I guess. I figured you’d worked your way through all the usual girls and were looking for innocent and unsuspecting.”

  He’s looking at her, now. Directly into her eyes, and he’s so close his breath whispers against her cheek.

  “And are you? Innocent and unsuspecting?” His voice has changed, deepened, there’s a bit of a growl in it.

  “Try me.”

  And then one of his hands is tangled in her hair at the base of her skull, and his lips touch hers, gentle at first, a question.

  Allie answers by deepening the kiss, letting go of memory and guilt in a rush of sensation that drowns, blessedly, everything else.

  Chapter Ten

  BRADEN

  When the bus lurches to a stop on Mercer Street, Braden still hasn’t made up his mind whether he’s going to get off or not. Phee’s scribbled scrap of paper is folded in his hand like a talisman. He doesn’t need it; the address is engraved in his memory along with the color of her hair and the low, sonorous timbre of her voice.

  She’s crazy. Obviously. But she’s managed to get under his skin like an itch he can’t scratch.

  In his before life—before the accident, before he lost his family, before the alcohol—he hadn’t thought of her as crazy at
all. At least once a year, more often if something seemed off, he would bring her the cello and she would croon over it as if it were a living creature. The two of them had been a team, united in the quest to bring out the most mellow, resonant tones possible.

  In what he thinks of as the after—the long alcoholic haze in which he’s been living—Phee showed up twice, once at the house, once at the hotel he’d moved into when he was still hoping the separation would be short and he’d soon be back home. On both of those occasions, she’d spouted insane nonsense about some contract between him and the cello, an idiot piece of paper he’d signed when he was still a child—rambling on about a curse that would befall him if he didn’t play.

  He remembers that last conversation vividly, one of few clear memories in the days and weeks after he’d lost his music. She’d stood with her foot in the door so he couldn’t slam it in her face.

  “You have to play.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You don’t understand. Granddad said there’s a curse if you don’t.”

  His laughter in response to those words had hurt more than the tears he’d been unable to shed.

  “I’m already cursed. How much worse could it get?”

  Plenty worse, as it turns out. Not that the cello or any mysterious curse is to blame. Braden is his own curse. Everything that has happened is his fault. All of it.

  As for Phee, he doesn’t hold her behavior against her. He’s done plenty of crazy shit when he was drunk.

  He’s so lost in thought, he’s surprised to see that he’s gotten out of his seat and begun following an elderly woman up the aisle. She moves at a snail’s pace, letting out a little puffing breath of pain with every step. When they reach the door, she pauses, preparing herself.

  “Can I help you?” he asks, offering a hand.

  She elbows him in the ribs and hobbles down alone, one painful step at a time.

  There’s a bar right across the street, its neon light flashing: You Are Here. Laughing people sit in chairs out on the sidewalk, an advertisement better than anything television could come up with. See? Drinks are harmless. Fun. Come on in and join us. It’s even happy hour.

  He crushes the folded paper in his hand and stuffs it into his pocket as he walks into the bar, breathing in the familiar smell of beer and sweat. He slides onto a stool and smiles at the young girl who appears as if summoned by magic, ready to take his order.