Beyond Vica (7 page)

I hadn't heard from Brody the rest of Saturday or yet today. I sent him a text when I got up this morning telling him that I was sorry and asked if we could talk, but he hasn't replied.

I don't even know if he's still planning on picking me up for school in the morning. I send him one more text before turning my light out on the nightstand. I bury myself under the covers, listening for my phone, but a return text never arrives. I finally doze off.

“Gabby, I gotta go now. I'll see you soon.” Sam's voice comes from behind me in his backyard.

I turn around. He's standing in front of the big oak we climbed as kids. The oak stands proud against the clear, starlit sky. Sam's curly brown hair is back. The dark circles under his chestnut eyes are gone. His smile shows teeth as white as snow.

“I'm not ready for you to go. Please don't leave,” I plead and try to cross the yard. With each step I take, the farther away he gets.

“I love you, Gabby.” He waves.

“I love you, too. Wait! Don't go,” I cry.

My eyes fly open. I sit up in bed. My room is dark. I hear the thud of my heart. I know he's gone. I feel it. I pull my knees to my chest and sob. I hear Mom's whispers outside my room. Light seeps into my room when she opens the door. She looks surprised to see me awake. I say it before she has a chance: “He's gone.”

She nods painfully and rushes to my bed. She crawls into bed with me and stretches out. I lie in her arms and cry. She strokes my hair until I cry myself asleep.

****

The creak of the porch swing plays in my ears. I watch the sun peek above the landscape and listen to the birds announce the arrival of a new day. The first day on Earth without Sam.

The world should just stop and mourn. I want to shout at the birds, “How can you sing when someone so special has just died?” Or yell at the people in the cars driving by, “How can you go to work when he's gone?”

I pull my knees to my chest and rest my head on them. My shoulders shake with my sobs. I'm still in my pajama pants and tank-top, but I don't care. I sense someone's eyes on me and raise my head.

Brody's walking up the driveway in athletic pants. His T-shirt has a pool of sweat on the front. He's panting. I hop off of the swing and down the steps of the porch. I run down the driveway and leap into his arms. He lifts me up. I wrap my legs around his waist. He holds me tight. I bury my face in the crook his neck and we both cry. I feel his shoulders shake and I tighten my hold on him.

After a few minutes, he releases me and wipes away the hair from my face. “I couldn't sleep, so I went for a run. I know it's early, but I had to see you.”

I don't say anything. I take his face between my hands and kiss him. I say with that kiss all the things I want to tell him:
I'm sorry for being selfish, I'm sorry for hurting you, I need you, we lost someone special to us
. We are both breathless when I pull away.

His gray eyes penetrate mine. “We're going to be okay, Gabby.” He rests his forehead against mine.

Mom called the guidance counselor at school and told her I wouldn't be back all week. Sam's funeral is tomorrow, Wednesday. Mrs. Hershey was cool about it, of course. She said I could take my exams online up to a week after school was out.

Marie calls me. She sounds better than I expected. She says Sarah is doing okay. Sarah doesn't fully understand where Sam is. I remember it was hard for me to understand where my dad was when I was her age. Marie asks if I want to speak at Sam's funeral. I hesitate, but I know it's something I have to do, so I agree to do it.

I'm in bed with my notebook once again, only this time the words flow from me like a river emptying itself into a bay.

****

I step into the blue sundress Mom and I got shopping yesterday, and I stick my arms through the armholes. With the straps in place, I zip up the back. I already curled my hair and put on makeup. I tried to get some of the swelling down in my eyelids by placing cold washcloths over them. It helped a little, but they're still puffy.

“You ready?” Mom pokes her head in my room.

I sigh. “Yeah, as ready as I can be.”

She holds her arm out to me. I walk to her and slip my arm around her waist. We walk to the car with our arms around each other and head to Sam's funeral.

****

Sam's casket is closed and draped with a beautiful spray of blue-violet flowers that I helped my mom arrange at her flower shop. We mixed a special baby's breath with the blue flowers called Million Star Baby's Breath. The baby's breath looks just like its name: a million stars against the blue flowers. Sam's school picture from this year is on an easel next to the casket.

Marie rushes over to me when she sees me walk in. We hold each other and sob for a long while. Sam's dad puts his arms around both of us and joins our crying. I didn't know it was possible to have so many tears. I've cried more the past few days than I have for last fifteen years.

Brody and I sit with the family in the front row. Sarah is on Brody's lap with her head on his shoulder. When the pastor is done with his talk of Heaven and Sam being taken to a better place, it's time for me to get up and speak.

My insides jitter and my legs shake on my way to the lectern. I lay my letter on the stand and grasp either side of it with my hands. I lick my dry lips and look out at the faces of Sam's family, people I don't know, and my classmates. I see Jamie's turquoise hair. She's seated in the back. I catch her eye, and she gives me an encouraging smile.

I take a deep breath and lean toward the microphone. “I've written a letter to Sam that I would like to share.” I clear my throat.

“'Dear Sam…You once thanked me for being the best friend you could've asked for. I'm the one who needs to thank you. Thank you for all the times you made me laugh when I felt like crying. Thank you for seeing the best in me when I couldn't see it in myself.

“'Thank you for sharing our dreams of the future, you an astronomer and me in the WNBA. You said you'd be my biggest fan, light up the night sky with my name and jersey number. You said you'd figure out how to display it all the way from space.'” I pause for a few chuckles, then continue.

“'Thank you for accepting my pushy over-protectiveness as just the way I look out for you. Most of all thank you for just being you: Sam the best friend, Sam the big brother, Sam the deep thinker, Sam with a heart as big as the galaxies you admired.'” I have to stop and swallow the lump rising in my throat. I feel all the eyes in the room on me and hear the sound of sniffles.

“'My last thank-you is to God, for blessing all of us with you for the last fifteen-and-a-half years.'” I gesture toward the whole room with a sweep of my arm when I say “all of us” and give Rachel a smile. Tears running down her cheeks, she smiles back.

“'Love always and forever, Gabby.'”

It's been a month since the funeral. It still hurts—a lot—but I'm doing a little better each day. I got my license, but not the red Camaro, for my birthday. The little white Honda mom bought is fine with me, though. I'm working at her flower shop for the summer to earn gas money and to keep busy.

Jamie and I met with Mrs. Smith about the e-magazine. We decided to call it
Drop a Line.
The first issue will feature poetry by Jamie and my story, “Beyond Vica.”

I honk the horn when I pull into Jamie's driveway. She bounces down the front steps of her aunt's single-story tan ranch home. Her hair is now red.

“You got your swimsuit?” I ask when she gets in. We're going to a pool party at Rachel's.

“Right here,” she says and pats a cloth bag at her side. “Where's Brody?”

“He's meeting us at Rachel's. He met some of the guys there when he got off work. I had to work later than he did today.” I turn into the Dublin Cemetery and pull under a willow tree and park. I turn to Jamie. “There was another letter I had to write.” I hold an envelope up to show her. “I'll be right back.”

She smiles. “Take your time.” She knows who it's for.

I'm careful not to step on any stones on my way to the headstone I'm looking for. I stop at a gray marble headstone with the name “Darin Martin” on it. I place the envelope with the letter inside at the base of the stone. I lay two flowers on the envelope, one pink and one blue, tied together with a ribbon.

“I love you, Dad,” I say, blowing a kiss and then skipping back to my car.

TC Booth
was born and raised in the small town where she currently lives and teaches. She is married with two daughters, teaches, and holds a master's degree in education.

She discovered her enjoyment of writing at a young age with the writing of poetry. This love of writing developed into writing short stories for her family and students.

She wrote the children's story,
The Time Travel Storm
for her class that was published in 2012. Her short young adult fiction story titled "A Seasoned Card Player" was published in an anthology called
A Certain Kind of Freedom
last year.

She feels blessed to be living her dream of not only teaching children, but writing stories for them and young adults to enjoy as well.

Chapter One

A train whistle echoed into the frigid night. By three o'clock a.m., most of the passengers had been lulled to sleep by the swaying of the steel wheels slicing through the snow. But not everyone was enticed to sleep as easily.

Fifteen-year old Payton MacGregor stared out his window. He pressed his forehead against the frost-fogged glass then attempted to stretch out his legs—man, it was like trying to get a giraffe comfortable in a station wagon. Designers of passenger train cars must have gone to the same engineering school as airplane designers: all passengers should be able to fold themselves into the two-foot space between rows of seats.

Payton twisted around until he finally settled into sitting with his legs bent up, his shins leaning against the seat in front of him and keeping his head against the window.

Excellent,
he thought.
By the time the train stops in Edmonton, I'll be numb from butt to ears.

He squinted out into the darkness then closed his eyes, his head vibrating against the window. John Lennon crooned through his MP3-player headphones about someone named Julia. Who was the song about again? His mother? A girlfriend?

When I cannot sing my heart…I can only speak my mind, Julia…

Payton laughed. Speaking his mind was what got him on the train in the first place. All his life he tried singing his heart but nobody listened. When he finally spoke his mind, he got into trouble. Well…not trouble exactly.

His grandparents had decided last week it was time for him to ship off and meet his father—a man who'd run off to join the army and left Payton with his alcoholic, bipolar mother. Not a phone call or a letter or a “How the heck are ya, son?” Just…gone.

“Yeah…that's a guy I'd love to get to know,” Payton had said, picking at a hangnail on his thumb.

Grandma's fork froze at her lips. “There's no need for sarcasm, young man. Especially not at the dinner table.”

Payton rolled his eyes. “Grandmother, you told me what a jerk Dad was and how he ran out on me and Mom. Why would I want to go and ‘get to know him' now?”

“Because he's your father.” Grandpa had said around a mouthful of roast beef. “And mind your temper. You'll respect your elders.”

“Yes sir.” Payton said, softening his tone. “But why? Where was he when Mom went manic and left me? Where was he when she drank and took off?”

His grandparents had stopped eating and looked at each other. Grandpa reached over his plate and squeezed Payton's shoulder. “We just think it's time for you to know both sides of who you are.”

“I have no interest in getting to know yet another person who never wanted me.” Payton had said.

Grandpa fiddled with his knife. “He wanted you, son. But he should be the one to talk to ya about it. Grandma and me think the only way you'll become who you're supposed to be is to see where you came from.”

Payton's eyes rimmed with tears, but he wouldn't let any fall. “What if I refuse to go?”

Grandpa picked his fork back up and continued eating. “You're going. We already got your train ticket. We'll take you to the station on Friday, and your Dad will meet you in Edmonton on Sunday. End of discussion.”

Payton stared into the living room at the glossy black laquered baby grand piano. His grandfather had polished it that morning. It was so shiny, it reflected the morning sunlight into the room. His stomach ached. “What about my music? Does he at least have a piano?”

Grandma gripped Payton's forearm. “You have to give him a chance, Pay. You need to do this. You shouldn't be so negative and pessimistic this young.”

So, they'd packed him up and carted him off to the train station where he was hugged and then shoved onto the train. Just like that. Music…the only gift his mother ever gave him…music always helped him…

A train conductor grabbed Payton's shoulder, startling him out of his daydream. He couldn't feel his legs anymore.

“S'cuz me, young man. Edmonton's comin' up. Best get ready.”

Payton nodded with a weak smile. He rubbed the frozen numbness out of his forehead. He put his MP3 player and his CDs back into his canvas carry-on bag.

He descended the staircase off the train, almost whacking his head on the metal doorframe, then shuffled out onto the platform. There were squeals of excitement as people greeted one another. People hugged, some crying tears of happiness; and he searched, wide-eyed, for a Dad-person whose eyes were the same as his.

His heart pounded. Then somewhere from the crow he heard his name. “Payton! Payton! Over here!”

He turned to see him—“Dad”—waving from the other side of the crowd. Payton guessed his father had to be at least his own height—six foot two—because they both had a full head height advantage over most of the other people on the platform.

His father lowered his arms behind his back and stood in an ‘At Ease' military stance. Payton squinted at the man's wire-rimmed glasses—with Coke-bottle lenses—from behind his own. They had the same dark blue eyes, similar pale skin tone, dark hair, buzzed short (only “Dad's” was salted with gray) and identical, big, red-tinged noses.

How weird to look so much like someone you hardly know
, Payton thought, repressing a shiver
.

“Dad” rubbed his lips together, his bushy moustache sweeping against his lower lip. Payton froze. His body wouldn't allow him to move forward. He stood there—with crowds of squealing, hugging, crying people—as his father did the same. How does a person greet someone he hasn't seen his entire life but oddly, for whom he's also secretly longed to meet?

His father moved toward him at a slow shuffle, then stood in front of him.

“Let's start this way,” he said, sticking out his hand. “My name is Liam. I'm your Dad.”

Payton stared at Liam's hand, chewing the inside of his lip. Then he shoved his hand into the rough, meaty palm and said, “Payton.”

After a firm handshake, he pulled his hand back. Liam picked up the bag containing all of his son's precious possessions and flipped it over his shoulder.

“Hungry?”

“Not really.” Payton said. “But I could use a good, strong cuppa coffee.”

Liam smiled. “I didn't sleep much either. Let's go to Tim Horton's on the way back.”

Payton watched as Liam did a casual quick march towards the end of the platform. The people around him still hugged and cried.

“You can tell a lot about a man from his handshake,” Grandpa had said often. Payton pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head and stuffed his hands deep inside the kangaroo pocket. He shuffled down the platform at a comfortable distance behind Liam.

Handshakes were a good place to start.

For now.