“Not in there. That one’s mine.” Oh well. He’s lazily brushing his hand across my neck and down my back. I feel like a tuning fork, my whole body humming.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he says. “But I think the roses worked. On my parents—I swear, they can’t keep their hands off each other. It’s disgusting. Marcus and Fred have been going down to your place at night and stealing roses to give to girls so they’ll sleep with them.” Gram is going to love this. It’s a good thing she’s so smitten with the Fontaine boys.
I put down the box, scoot around so I’m facing him. “I don’t think
any
of you guys need Gram’s roses for that.”
“John Lennon?”
Bat. Bat. Bat.
I run my finger over his lips, say, “I want to do everything with you too.”
“Oh man,” he says, pulling me down to him, and then we are kissing so far into the sky I don’t think we’re ever coming back.
If anyone asks where we are, just tell them to look up.
chapter 38
Bails?
Yeah?
Is it so dull being dead?
It was, not anymore.
What changed?
I stopped peering over the ledge …
What do you do now?
It’s hard to explain—it’s like swimming, but not in water, in light.
Who do you swim with?
Mostly you and Toby, Gram, Big, with Mom too, sometimes.
How come I don’t know it?
But you do, don’t you?
I guess, like all those days we spent at Flying Man’s?
Exactly, only brighter.
(Written in Lennie’s journal)
GRAM AND I are baking the day away in preparation for Big’s wedding. All the windows and doors are open and we can hear the river and smell the roses and feel the heat of the sun streaming in. We’re chirping about the kitchen like sparrows.
We do this every wedding, only this is the first time we’re doing it without Bailey. Yet, oddly, I feel her presence more today in the kitchen with Gram than I have since she died. When I roll the dough out, she comes up to me and sticks her hand in the flour and flicks it into my face. When Gram and I lean against the counter and sip our tea, she storms into the kitchen and pours herself a cup. She sits in every chair, blows in and out the doors, whisks in between Gram and me humming under her breath and dipping her finger into our batters. She’s in every thought I think, every word I say, and I let her be. I let her enchant me as I roll the dough and think my thoughts and say my words, as we bake and bake—both of us having finally dissuaded Joe of the necessity of an exploding wedding cake—and talk about inanities like what Gram is going to wear for the big party. She is quite concerned with her outfit.
“Maybe I’ll wear pants for a change.” The earth has just slid off its axis. Gram has a floral frock for every occasion. I’ve never seen her out of one. “And I might straighten my hair.” Okay, the earth has slid off its axis and is now hurtling toward a different galaxy. Imagine Medusa with a blow-dryer. Straight hair is an impossibility for Gram or any Walker, even with thirty hours to go until party time.
“What gives?” I ask.
“I just want to look nice, no crime in that, is there? You know, sweet pea, it’s not like I’ve lost my sex appeal.” I can’t believe Gram just said sex appeal. “Just a bit of a dry spell is all,” she mutters under her breath. I turn to look at her. She’s sugaring the raspberries and strawberries and flushing as crimson as they are.
“Oh my God, Gram! You have a crush.”
“God no!”
“You’re lying. I can see it.”
Then she giggles in a wild cackley way “I am lying! Well, what do you expect? With you so loopy all the time about Joe, and now Big and Dorothy ... maybe I caught a little of it. Love is contagious, everyone knows that, Lennie.”
She grins.
“So, who is it? Did you meet him at The Saloon that night?” That’s the only time she’s been out socializing in months. Gram is not the Internet dating type. At least I don’t think she is.
I put my hands on my hips. “If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to ask Maria tomorrow. There’s nothing in Clover she doesn’t know.”
Gram squeals, “Mum’s me, sweet pea.”
No matter how I prod through hours more of pies, cakes, and even a few batches of berry pudding, her smiling lips remain sealed.
AFTER WE’RE DONE, I get my backpack, which I loaded up earlier, and take off for the cemetery. When I hit the trailhead, I start running. The sun is breaking through the canopy in isolated blocks, so I fly through light and dark and dark and light, through the blazing unapologetic sunlight, into the ghostliest loneliest shade, and back again, back and forth, from one to the next, and through the places where it all blends together into a leafy-lit emerald dream. I run and run and as I do the fabric of death that has clung to me for months begins to loosen and slip away. I run fast and free, suspended in a moment of private raucous happiness, my feet barely touching the ground as I fly forward to the next second, minute, hour, day, week, year of my life.
I break out of the woods on the road to the cemetery. The hot afternoon sunlight is lazing over everything, meandering through the trees, casting long shadows. It’s warm and the scent of eucalyptus and pine is thick, overpowering. I walk the footpath that winds through the graves listening to the rush of the falls, remembering how important it was for me, despite all reason, that Bailey’s grave be where she could see and hear and even smell the river.
I’m the only person in the small hilltop cemetery and I’m glad. I drop my backpack and sit down beside the gravestone, rest my head against it, wrap my hands and arms around it like I’m playing a cello. The stone is so warm against my body. We chose this one because it had a little cabinet in it, a kind of reliquary, with a metal door that has an engraving of a bird on it. It sits under the chiseled words. I run my fingers across my sister’s name, her nineteen years, then across the words I wrote on a piece of paper months ago and handed to Gram in the funeral parlor:
The Color of Extraordinary .
I reach for my pack, pull a small notebook out of it. I transcribed all the letters Gram wrote to our mom over the last sixteen years. I want Bailey to have those words. I want her to know that there will never be a story that she won’t be a part of, that she’s everywhere like sky. I open the door and slide the book in the little cabinet, and as I do, I hear something scrape. I reach in and pull out a ring. My stomach drops. It’s gorgeous, an orange topaz, big as an acorn. Perfect for Bailey. Toby must have had it made especially for her. I hold it in my palm and the certainty that she never got to see it pierces me. I bet the ring is what they were waiting for to finally tell us about their marriage, the baby. How Bails would’ve showed it off when they made the grand announcements. I rest it on the edge of the stone where it catches a glint of sun and throws amber prismatic light over all the engraved words.
I try to fend off the oceanic sadness, but I can’t. It’s such a colossal effort not to be haunted by what’s lost, but to be enchanted by what was.
I miss you,
I tell her,
I can’t stand that you’re going to miss so much.
I don’t know how the heart withstands it.
I kiss the ring, put it back into the cabinet next to the notebook, and close the door with the bird on it. Then I reach into my pack and take out the houseplant. It’s so decrepit, just a few blackened leaves left. I walk over to the edge of the cliff, so I’m right over the falls. I take the plant out of its pot, shake the dirt off the roots, get a good grip, reach my arm back, take one deep breath before I pitch my arm forward, and let go.
epilogue
(Found on the bed, in the forest bedroom)
(Found again in the bombroom, in the trash can, ripped into pieces by Lennie)
(Found again on Joe’s desk, taped together, with the word
dildonic
written over it)
(Found framed under glass in Joe’s dresser drawer, where it still is)
acknowledgments
In loving memory of Barbie Stein, who is everywhere like sky
I’D LIKE TO THANK:
First and foremost, my parents, all four of them, for their boundless love and support: my awesome father and Carol, my huge-hearted mother and Ken. My whole family for their rollicking humor and steadfastness: my brothers Bruce, Bobby, and Andy, my sisters-in-law Patricia and Monica, my niece and nephews Adam, Lena, and Jake, my grandparents, particularly the inimitable Cele.
Mark Routhier for so much joy, belief, love.
My amazing friends, my other family, for every day, in every way: Ami Hooker, Anne Rosenthal, Becky MacDonald, Emily Rubin, Jeremy Quittner, Larry Dwyer, Maggie Jones, Sarah Michelson, Julie Regan, Stacy Doris, Maritza Perez, David Booth, Alexander Stadler, Rick Heredia, Patricia Irvine, James Faerron, Lisa Steindler, and James Assatly, who is so missed, also my extended families: the Routhier, Green, and Block clans ... and many others, too many to name.
Patricia Nelson for around the clock laughs and legal expertise, Paul Feuerwerker for glorious eccentricity, revelry, and invaluable insights into the band room, Mark H. for sublime musicality, first love.
The faculty, staff, and student body of Vermont College of Fine Arts, particularly my miracle-working mentors: Deborah Wiles, Brent Hartinger, Julie Larios, Tim Wynne-Jones, Margaret Bechard, and visiting faculty Jane Yolen. And my classmates: the Cliff-hangers, especially Jill Santopolo, Carol Lynch Williams, Erik Talkin, and Mari Jorgensen. Also, the San Francisco VCFA crew And Marianna Baer—angel at the end of my keyboard.
My other incredible teachers and professors: Regina Wiegand, Bruce Boston, Will Erikson, Archie Ammons, Ken McClane, Phyllis Janowitz, C.D. Wright, among many others.
To those listed above who spirit in and out of this book—a special thank you.
Deepest appreciation and gratitude go to:
My clients at Manus & Associates Literary Agency, as well as my extraordinary colleagues: Stephanie Lee, Dena Fischer, Penny Nelson, Theresa van Eeghen, Janet and Justin Manus, and most especially, Jillian Manus, who doesn’t walk, but dances on water.
Alisha Niehaus, my remarkable editor, for her ebullience, profundity, insight, kindness, sense of humor, and for making every part of the process a celebration. Everyone at Dial and Penguin Books for Young Readers for astounding me each jubilant step of the way.
Emily van Beek of Pippin Properties for being the best literary agent on earth! I am forever mesmerized by her joyfulness, brilliance, ferocity and grace. Holly McGhee for her enthusiasm, humor, savvy and soulfulness. Elena Mechlin for her behind-the-scenes magic and cheer. The Pippin Ladies are without peer. And Jason Dravis at Monteiro Rose Dravis Agency for his vision and dazzling know-how
And finally, an extra heartfelt double-whammy out-of-the-freaking-park thank you to my brother Bobby: True Believer.