“Sylvia said you’re homeschooling?”
Sort of. “I’m still enrolled at the high school here. Because I’m so close to graduating, my teachers are working with me so I can do my classes online.” And because I know she’s hungry for information: “Lucy’s in school in Louisville. It’s a good one.”
A fancy one that Tory’s friends and family rave about. Some sort of Latin school that only goes so many days a week. I was wary at first, but Lucy loves it, and I like the extra time with her during the day. “They’ve been patient with Lucy. Understanding, too. Something she needs.”
A flash of hurt and guilt strikes Mom’s face and that hurts me. Why did I have to say the last part? I let out a frustrated breath as I realize I might have said it on purpose—to hurt her. Because I am still angry and forgiveness is a fickle beast.
“Have Sylvia and Miguel told you that I’ve stopped drinking?” she asks.
I nod. They told me that she hasn’t touched alcohol with any of her friends. Sylvia said Mom’s story about her drinking varies with whom she’s talking to, but she’s shot straighter with Hannah than with anyone else. Any inconsistency in her stories bothers me. Also, not knowing what she’s doing in her free time is a hot-button topic.
“Can I be honest with you on something?” she asks.
I nod again, not really sure if she’s capable of such a thing.
“Not drinking hasn’t been nearly as easy as I thought it would be. Because that’s what I thought for a long time—that if I wanted to, I could stop. I just didn’t want to. But not drinking, especially with you and Lucy gone … it’s been hard.”
“Are you still drinking?”
“No,” she says too quickly.
Anger tightens my muscles and I glare at her.
Mom immediately glances away and her face draws down. “It’s not easy. I try … but it’s not easy.”
“I get it.”
“I don’t think you do,” she says with bite. “You don’t understand how I just feel so … so…”
“Thirsty,” I finish for her. I look over at her and when she finally meets my eyes, I say, “I get it.”
Her eyebrows draw together. “How?”
I look down at the text I wrote to Dad about heading back to Louisville, then figure I’ll just send him another telling him I’ll be an hour or two later, that I decided to head to a meeting before hitting the road. “Want to go somewhere with me?”
“Where?”
“A meeting I like to go to. There’s this guy there, Knox. He has a way of explaining things to me about how I feel in ways I can’t do yet.”
Mom wraps her arms around herself, making herself smaller. “What type of meeting?”
She still doesn’t quite see it—herself as an alcoholic—as someone who needs help. I get that, too. “The type of meeting where they’re okay if you come a hundred times and call each one your first visit because they understand that you belong there way before you do. A place that gives you the space you need or the support you need if that’s what you choose. It’s a place that doesn’t judge. I like it there. I think you might, too.”
Mom’s eyes flit around me. “I don’t understand how you know about these things.”
“If you come with me, I’ll tell you.”
Mom glances down at the oversized sweatshirt and sweats, and I shake my head. “Just come as you are, Mom. In fact, it’s the best way to go.”
She stands and pulls down the sweatshirt, a sign she’s unsure again, but she does take the step that I want in the right direction. “Okay. I’ll go.”
VERONICA
It’s late summer. Above me, there are a million stars in the sky. Below my bare feet is cool sand. Beyond is the dark ocean. The waves roll along and then crash on the beach. A constant, repetitive noise that’s music to my ears.
There’s a breeze tonight. Not enough to whip the sand into a frenzy and sting my sensitive skin. Just the perfect type that when I hold out my arms, turn my face up to the wind and close my eyes, I feel like I’m flying.
There’s hair on my head now. Not a lot. Just enough that I can feel the breeze lift the baby-fine tendrils. My hair doesn’t seem to be growing back the same as before and the doctor said that’s normal. It’s not my typical blond, but a tad bit darker, more golden, and so far, my hair is flatiron straight. It’s not long enough to determine whether or not it will curl, but there’s something deep within me that says it won’t.
I’m changed, and somehow it feels appropriate for my outside appearance to reflect what has happened on the inside. I started my cancer treatment one person and I’m leaving it another. Some parts better, a few worse. But that’s change—finding beauty in the imperfections.
On my last scan, there was no sign of the tumor and my port was removed. No one is ready to say remission yet, but when the doctors smile at me now, it’s with light in their eyes. As if they really weren’t sure that what they had hoped for before could really happen, but now it seems possible.
Water laps at my feet and the bubbles tickle my toes. The air tastes of salt and sand. I breathe in deeply and do my best to take it all in.
My immune system is slowly repairing itself, but to appease Dad and my doctors, we’re avoiding large crowds on this trip. During the day, we hang out at the condo Sylvia’s parents own then venture to the beach at night. The condo is fancy, is on one of the highest floors of the building and has a balcony overlooking the sea.
Sylvia and Miguel allowed Sawyer and me to have the corner bedroom with the view of the ocean. We spend a lot of time with the door to the balcony open, lying tangled up with each other, kissing then watching the deep blue water. He’ll whisper to me that he loves me, I whisper that I love him back. Both of us are more than ready to move on from doctor appointments, treatments and test results.
Sawyer talks about his plans to swim in college and how he’s not sure yet if he’ll live on campus or live with his dad who will soon be moving into a house with more bedrooms. I stay quiet as I’m a bit baffled by the idea of a future. I never allowed myself the possibility of one, and standing on the edge of the ocean, I feel very small.
My future is now as huge and wide as this sea—who will I be in the midst of it?
In the water, Miguel, Sawyer and Sylvia laugh, and thanks to the moonlight, I watch them. Shadows in the moving water. They’re all accomplished swimmers and didn’t blink twice at entering the ocean without the light of day.
A tall shadow moves from the water, and Sawyer has a contagious and fantastic grin. He’s dripping from head to toe and half naked, water cascading over his pronounced muscles, and I can feel the heat of the blush on my cheeks. He’s beautiful and he belongs to me.
“Swim with me.”
If I had eyebrows, they both would have raised. They haven’t grown in yet, but I’m hoping they will soon. “I didn’t just go through countless rounds of chemo to drown in the ocean. I sink like a rock, remember?”
Sawyer places a hand on the curve of my waist and draws me into him. I’m in a bikini, he’s wearing a Speedo. My entire body grows very warm with so much skin-to-skin contact.
“I remember you floating just fine.” Sawyer rubs a hand up and down my back, and I curl further into him. “Besides, I promised then and I promise now that I’ll get you back to dry land.”
I purse my lips, still unsure.
He reaches up and smooths out my mouth, causing my heart to beat faster.
“Once you get through the breakers, the water is smooth, like glass, and it’s warm. Just a few feet out there’s a sandbar where the water will only reach your knees.” Sawyer leans down and brushes his lips along my neck. Pleasing goose bumps form on my arms. “Trust me to take you out. I’ll even carry you if you want.”
Carry me. He’s carried me for months. To and from the bathroom, up and down the stairs. To and from the car for appointments. I’m tired of being carried. I’m ready to live.
A rush of energy courses thro
ugh me and when Sawyer takes in my expression, his wicked smile matches mine.
“I remember that smile,” he says with a spark in his eyes like he’s reliving a good memory. “It either meant I was about to get schooled by you or that I might need bail money. What trouble am I about to get into?”
I laugh and I love how his body vibrates against mine as he chuckles with me.
“Teach me to swim,” I say.
Sawyer tilts his head like he thinks that’s a terrible idea. “Now?”
“Why not? You teach kids who can barely walk to swim four out of seven days a week.” Sawyer teaches at his swim club and local Y in Louisville. “Surely you can teach me.”
“Yeah, but in the ocean? In the dark?” He squeezes me closer, but being smaller and because he’s slick from the ocean, I’m able to twist and duck out of his arms.
I walk backward into the surf. Adrenaline pumps quickly in my veins from excitement and fear. “I’m alive, Sawyer, and I’m ready to live again.”
His eyes wander up and then down, a seductive slide of his gaze, as if he’s also very interested in living. “There are rules for learning to swim.”
“Rules don’t apply to me, remember?”
“Oh, I remember.” His smile leaves me nearly breathless, then the wave that crashes into my back steals the rest of the air from my lungs.
I squeal, Sawyer’s immediately by my side, his hand holding mine, but he doesn’t sweep me up, instead he is talking me through what to do. I laugh, Sawyer laughs, I swim, almost sink, then swim again. I fail, I try again, I fail, I sort of succeed.
The waves roll up then down, always one right after the other, but I don’t give up. I never give up. And neither does Sawyer. He’s right beside me. Patient, kind, and doesn’t once try to do it for me. He encourages, but he lets me fight on my own.
And then we reach the sandbar, laughing. I fall into his arms and we kiss, kiss some more, and we enjoy every second of living.
SAWYER
Monday November 18: It started out to be pretty nice today and then it rained. Helen and I took a little walk this morning. We had rehearsal this afternoon from 4 to 5 and another tonight from 6:30 to 7:30. It went fine tonight. Better than it ever has before.
We had services tonight. Rev. Lubin came. Saw Morris and talked to him for awhile.
Found part of MacD’s sketch for Thanksgiving. Haha.
I often reread the last entry of Evelyn’s diary. I don’t know if I’m searching for some sort of clue of what she was really thinking in the moment or searching for context of what happened next.
The only solace is that the entry was … simple, peaceful. The living of the day-to-day with the idea that tomorrow will definitely come.
Veronica plays the piano. I thought her voice was the most beautiful sound in the world. It still is, but listening to her play is a close second.
She’s taking lessons now, and she’s considering applying to a conservatory. Not for this coming year, as she’s missed all the deadlines, but next. She’s focusing on finishing her senior year online this summer and then on honing her musical skills. Veronica was able to keep up with some of her classes this past year, but there were some that were too much.
One step at a time, that’s what Ulysses told her. She and I took that to heart.
I sit on the couch in her apartment, a computer on my lap. Sylvia, Miguel and I finished the senior thesis paper without Veronica—but it was a scaled-down version because the leader of our team wasn’t there to help us properly. We did great on it, but it wasn’t what any of us truly thought it could be.
Now with Veronica back to work on graduating, we asked if we could redo the paper with her, even though the three of us already have our diplomas. Veronica and our English teacher agreed.
Veronica’s senior thesis paper is due this week. She has finished her part, Sylvia and Miguel, too. Ninety-nine percent of my part is done, I just have to add my final reflection.
Ghosts.
Hauntings.
I start to speak softly into the mic for the computer to type …
Last August I started this paper as a skeptic; ghosts weren’t real, so therefore neither were hauntings. But I know now that’s all wrong.
Ghosts are real and so are hauntings. I know because I’ve been haunted for years by the ghosts of my past. To clarify, using the terminology from earlier in this paper, a residual haunting. An emotional circumstance that was so powerful it became imprinted in my soul—playing over and over again in a loop, thereby affecting my every decision.
But here’s the thing about coming to terms with hauntings and ghosts being real—you can eradicate them. Get rid of those things that follow you around, affecting every aspect of your life. A cleansing like the one performed in the house as discussed above.
At the start of this paper, I didn’t believe in much—love included. But by digging deep into myself, by confronting those things that scare me the most, I found love. Love for my friends, for my family, for the woman I love and more importantly, for myself.
The music from the piano ceases, and I glance up to find Veronica looking thoughtfully at me. An angel with a devil’s grin. “Are you done yet?”
“Just one sentence away.”
“Good. I was texting with Sylvia and Miguel and they said there’s this haunted schoolhouse that’s doing tours this evening and I so want to go. Jesse, Scarlett, Leo and Nazareth are thinking about going, too. And then I was thinking we should get ice cream.”
“Has anyone else caught on that the paper’s over?”
“Yes, but you have to admit the research was fun.”
The best. Life altering. I turn back to the computer and speak the last line: Now, I am definitely a believer.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Evelyn Bellak was sixteen years old and had tuberculosis.
She was a real person. Her words, dreams, hopes, and fears became immortalized in a diary that exists today in the safekeeping of the Adirondack Research Room at the Saranac Lake Free Library.
While the quotes used from the diary are from Evelyn Bellak, everything else about this story is fictionalized. It is my great hope that through Veronica and Sawyer’s story, the hope and love reflected in Evelyn’s diary will live on.
A special thank-you to Michele A. Tucker, the curator of the Adirondack Research Room at the Saranac Lake Free Library, for keeping Evelyn’s diary safe and for allowing the world to read her precious words. Also thank you for allowing me permission to use quotes from Evelyn’s diary in this novel.
Bellak, Evelyn, Fond Memories of Ray Brook: A Diary, Jan. 1, 1918–Nov. 18, 1918, courtesy of the Adirondack Research Room, Saranac Lake Free Library.
Also, thank you to Shirley Morgan for writing Well Diary … I Have Tuberculosis, a research of Evelyn’s life and the tuberculosis outbreak in the United States. I love that you fleshed out who Evelyn was beyond the pages of her diary.
If you think you or someone you know might be affected by alcoholism and/or depression, here are some resources that might be able to help.
AA https://www.aa.org/
Al-Anon https://al-anon.org/
Crisis text line for depression: https://www.crisistextline.org/depression
Suicide hotline: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/talk-to-someone-now/
PLAYLIST
THEME:
“King of My Heart” by Bethel Music, Steffany Gretzinger and Jeremy Riddle
“What Ifs” by Kane Brown (featuring Lauren Alaina)
“Plush” by Stone Temple Pilots
“Broken Halos” by Chris Stapleton
“Shallow” by Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper
“Meant to Be” by Bebe Rexha and Florida Georgia Line
VERONICA:
“… Ready for It?” by Taylor Swift
“Delicate” by Taylor Swift
“This Is What You Came For” by Calvin Harris (featuring Rihanna)
“Mary Jane’s Last Dance” by To
m Petty and The Heartbreakers
SAWYER:
“Believer” by Imagine Dragons
“Interstate Love Song” by Stone Temple Pilots
“Whatever It Takes” by Imagine Dragons
“Thunder” by Imagine Dragons
VERONICA AND SAWYER’S FUTURE:
“Heaven” by Kane Brown
“Simple” by Florida Georgia Line
“Setting the World on Fire” by Kenny Chesney (with P!nk)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To God: Psalm 136:1 and Isaiah 41:10
—Thank You for always being by my side.
As always, for Dave.
—Because my heart still melts when you look over at me from the driver’s side of the car and you sing a lyric of a song to me that fits exactly how we love each other.
For A, N, and P.
—Thank you for continually teaching me.
A huge thank-you to Suzie Townsend, Cassandra Baim, KP Simmon, Amy Stapp, Diana Gill, Saraciea Fennell, and Tor Teen for believing in Veronica and Sawyer’s story.
To my wonderful group of friends, family, critique partners, and beta readers who have helped and loved me along the way: Colette Ballard, Kelly Creagh, Bethany Griffin, Kurt Hampe, Bill Wolfe, Wendy Higgins, Kristen Simmons, and Angela Annalaro-Murphy.
And to my readers.
—I am forever grateful for your love and support!
ALSO BY KATIE McGARRY
Only a Breath Apart
THE PUSHING THE LIMITS SERIES
Pushing the Limits
Crossing the Line
Dare You To
Crash Into You
Take Me On
Breaking the Rules
Chasing Impossible
THE THUNDER ROAD SERIES
Nowhere But Here
Walk the Edge
Long Way Home
OTHERS
Say You’ll Remember Me
Echoes Between Us Page 35
