by Natalie Lund
He grabbed the latch, picturing the most peaceful life he could imagine—a giant live oak that sat outside the McAllister mansion, casting dappled shadows on the lawn. The tree had been there before humans, when the island was a sliver of wild forest and swamp ruled by ancient alligators.
A small cool hand on his stopped him from pushing the door open. He thought it must be Shane’s or Nate’s, but when he looked down, there was nothing there. Yet he felt the pressure—a familiar weight.
Izzy’s hand.
He’d resented her twinsense for so long and now here it was, with him.
He tried to see the beach, tried to find her with his eyes, but they were falling too fast. She had never turned away from him—no matter how hard he pushed. He’d deleted the voice memos because he was trying to spare her feeling that she could have helped. But what if he had actually let her try to help him? What if he had trusted her with this? And his parents, too? What if that was how he made things right in this life? By connecting with his family in the way Randolph hadn’t.
“Get us out,” Israel said to Shane. “Stop it. I changed my mind.”
To Nate, it looked as though the sky had split like the skin of an overripe fruit, but instead of sweet-smelling flesh, there was a hard darkness inside. He could feel its pull. He imagined plunging into it like you dove into the ocean. Everything would become remote—waves scraping the sand, the voices around you, the sky above. It was peaceful under the water, but only because it wasn’t permanent, because you could break the surface and feel the relief of everything rushing back. He could try again to tell them—his mom, Aaron, Janie. And even if he couldn’t tell them and his tongue split at the effort, he knew that they’d see what was happening to him, that they’d understand, before it was too late. He just had to cling to hope a little longer.
“We have to go back,” Nate said.
Shane tried to point the nose down as he’d rehearsed with Brad, but it was too late. He was too inexperienced. They were too close to the water. Brad had said flying would make Shane’s life his own. He’d thought that, as a pilot, he wouldn’t need to cheat. He wouldn’t feel like less than the person he loved. He’d be able to choose his own future.
“I can’t!” he shouted.
The plane screamed toward the black hole. The green water gathered at its edges.
In the building wave, three gray shapes streaked forward. When the wave crested, they leapt over it and into the darkness.
EPILOGUE
JANIE
Eight days after
THE SUN IS setting when we reach the island again—not even an hour after Cass and I stood, hands clasped together, watching the plane land and Izzy spill from it, her arms already open to us. We texted our families that we were okay and drove straight to the beach with the windows rolled down, the wind drying our faces.
We stop at the memorial with its wilted flowers, crosses, and stuffed animals. Someone has tucked small American flags into teddy bear arms, as though even this memorial should be part of the approaching Fourth of July celebration. Izzy picks up a gray bear with fur that’s been matted by rain and sea salt—and hugs it to her chest.
On the beach, there’s no evidence of what happened here. No Solo cups, volleyball nets, indentations in the sand from the keg. There aren’t broken wings, laughing seniors, or dolphins.
The ocean—Nate’s magic thing—has washed everything clean.
“I’m sorry they’re not here,” Cass says.
“Me too,” Izzy says, a little sadly. “I’d still like to believe they were, though.”
“Me too,” I say because dolphins live free, baptized by the waves.
Izzy drops to the sand and kicks out her legs. Cass sits beside her, leaning back on her hands.
It’s a Texas sunset, which manages to bleed from yellow to peach to purple to navy like a watercolor painting. I cross my legs and throw my head back. A few stars are already visible in the dark half of the sky, gauzy in the fading light.
“Janie, tell us the story of the man and the whale,” Izzy says, rolling onto her stomach so that we can see her face. “From the script.”
I close my eyes a moment, trying to remember the scenes I imagined when I was writing it so many months ago.
“There’s a man,” I begin, “who loves his wife very much, but she dies suddenly of a heart attack. The man falls into a deep depression and his son encourages him to take his granddaughter out because being around her and doing something might help him feel better. So he takes her to the aquarium. And there’s an orca there. The little girl says, ‘Look, it’s Grandma.’ The man is charmed by his granddaughter, but then he looks very close, and he sees it is actually her—his wife. Her soul is visible through the eye of the whale. And she seems to recognize him, too, because she just floats there, looking right at him. At the end, he goes back without his granddaughter so that he can talk to his wife alone.”
“What does he say to her?” Cass asks.
“Well, I don’t know; I didn’t write that part into the script.”
“It’s not too late,” Izzy says. “Make it up now.”
I pause, but they don’t seem impatient with me. “Well, I suppose he says he’s sorry for the times he hurt her and that he loves her.”
“Do you think she says anything back?” Cass asks.
“Obviously, she says it in whale so he can’t understand,” Izzy says.
I laugh.
“So how does it end again?” Cass asks.
“With a wide shot of his silhouette being swallowed by hers as she gets closer and closer to the glass,” Izzy says, and I’m surprised she remembers this so clearly.
“Yeah, because it’s a mystery bigger than us.” I gesture at the sky above us, the ocean at our feet, the place where the boys left this life and became something new.
Cass looks at me, her eyes tawny and gentle in the dusky light. Izzy does too, not bothering to wipe away the tears sliding down her cheeks. We are quiet, listening to the rhythmic shush of the waves. And for the first time, I feel like we belong—to each other and to this strange world.
Acknowledgments
SINCE THE PUBLICATION of We Speak in Storms, I have met so many teachers, librarians, and booksellers who work incredibly hard to connect young people with books they’ll love. Thank you for helping to make the world a better place one reader at a time.
Thank you to Julie Henson, Rebecca McKanna, and Cassandra Sanborn for offering their wisdom and insight on so many drafts of this novel. From the start, you have been the champions Izzy, Cass, Janie, Nate, Israel, and Shane needed.
Thank you to Liza Kaplan, for her enthusiasm and thoughtful edits, and to the teams at Philomel and Penguin for their bookmaking magic. Thank you to my agent, Sarah Davies, for being an advocate and adviser.
Thank you to Sean Killian, Jim Hitchcock, Melissa Johnson, Martín Maldonado, Maria Maldonado, and Molly Erickson for giving their time and expertise as I was researching everything from flying to ACL injuries to mental health.
Thank you to my colleagues, friends, and family for their patience and support as I built this book. Thank you especially to my mother, Mary Lund, for being a first reader; to Thuy Nguyen, for her graphic design prowess; and to Sarah Murphy, for creating educator resources for my novels.
To my partner, Johnny Acevedo, thank you for being my personal publicist and bookseller; for enduring early-morning wake-ups and long weekend hours; for providing countless meals, coffees, and pep talks; and, most of all, for loving me to life. I couldn’t do it without you.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Days after I began writing this book, my mother’s cancer came back, blooming across her skin. At the same time, climate change was constantly in the news: a countdown to the end of our planet popping onto my phone screen. Somehow these two griefs became entwined, and I started to feel para
lyzed by everyday decisions. All I could think was nothing matters, nothing matters, nothing matters. It all ends. I had panic attacks—short bursts of terror that left me gasping for breath—as I stood in elevators or rode trains. I slept with my head tented under blankets through fuzzy winter daylight or I didn’t sleep at all.
I have felt like this before: when I was sixteen, when I was twenty-five. I still wear those dark periods like scars inside my body, feel them stretch and ache in memory.
Because our society has become better at talking about depression in the past decade, I recognized its face. I knew the shape of it. So, this time, I managed to ask for help.
When I sat in a therapist’s chair and told her my story, she made me feel like I mattered, like I was important, like I was welcome here.
I wrote The Sky Above Us inside those difficult months, and outside of them too. I hope that, in reading this novel, you will know that you are not alone in whatever you’re experiencing; that there is a person out there who will really see you; and that it is okay to ask for help for you or for someone you know.
You matter. You are important. You are welcome here.
If you or someone you know is struggling, please consider this list of resources as a helpful guide:
The Trevor Project
thetrevorproject.org
24/7/365 Hotline: 1-866-488-7386 or Text START to 678-678
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
suicidepreventionlifeline.org
English: 1-800-273-8255 / Español: 1-888-628-9454 /
For Deaf and Hard of Hearing: 1-800-799-4889
The Jason Foundation
jasonfoundation.com
1-800-273-TALK (8255) or Text Jason to 741-741
The Jed Foundation
jedfoundation.org
1-800-273-TALK (8255) or Text START to 741-741
American Foundation for Suicide Prevention
afsp.org/find-support
American Association of Suicidology
suicidology.org/resources
Crisis Text Line
crisistextline.org/selfharm
Text CONNECT to 741-741
National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI)
nami.org/Find-Support/Teens-Young-Adults
1-800-950-NAMI (6264) or Text NAMI to 741-741
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration National Helpline
samhsa.gov/find-help/national-helpline
1-800-662-HELP (4357)
Families for Depression Awareness
familyaware.org/help-someone
National Safe Place
nationalsafeplace.org/find-a-safe-place
Text the word SAFE and your current location (address, city, state) to 698-66. Within seconds, you will receive a message with the closest Safe Place location.
ReachOut.com
au.reachout.com
The National Association for School Psychologists
nasponline.org/resources-and-publications/resources-and-podcasts
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Natalie Lund (natalielund.com) is a former middle and high school teacher. A graduate of Purdue University's MFA program, she taught introductory composition and creative writing there, and also served as the fiction editor of Sycamore Review. Natalie lives in Chicago with her husband. You can follow her on Twitter @nmlund.
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