Lucid (35 page)

“You know,” I say, “someday I may be far away. But I’ll always remember everything about you. Because you’re just the best mom.”

She gets a little teary again. “You won’t ever be that far away. There are airplanes, you know. And that Skype thing.”

“Sure,” I lie. And even though I know she can’t be real, I know she’s real to me. And I know in this moment that I don’t want Maggie to take her away from me. I don’t know how, but I’ll fight for her. I’m not ready to give her up. Not ever.

And then. I suddenly know. I know why all this is happening. And I know how to stop it. I know how to stop Maggie. How to stop her from taking me away.

I stand in the shower. I need to be with him.
Sleep
with him. I want to be with him more than anything I’ve ever wanted. I wonder about it all the time. What it will feel like. I won’t be confused or sad about it being the only time. I’ll make it perfect; I know I will. It will make up for a lifetime of times.

But more important, it will make it okay when I tell him goodbye. It will make him understand that I don’t blame him or hate him, even though it’s all his fault. Even though he’s made everything happen. He didn’t know. It isn’t anyone’s fault.

Biking to his house at dusk, I see no cars and I can ride down the hill with my arms stretched out like wings. No hands. Maggie can’t do this down Park Avenue. I’ve spent my whole life loving this town. The coolness of the shady woods, the sound of the crickets,
the painted sky reflected in the stillness of the cove. It all whizzes by. And I am so grateful in this moment to Maggie for choosing it. After a year of sadness, I’m starting to remember why I love my life.

All afternoon I spent saying goodbye to everything in my so-called life, big and small. The noisy furnace in the basement. The big gross spider outside my bathroom window. My stoic tree. Stoic because she never talks, but she is so brave.

All the animals at the vet watched me cry, some with real concern. Others, mostly cats, were just curious. I held them all, which takes some doing with an Irish wolfhound. I had a real conversation with my favorite patient, a blind tabby named Willow. I told her there is a place where we would meet again. And I promised we would. And I kissed her.

It is just dark as I reach James’s. Stars are starting to appear in the purple sky. He comes down the steps and grabs me up in a big hug and kiss. He hasn’t seen me for two days, and he’s missed me. I force myself to realize that he doesn’t know anything is wrong. Just like Gordy and Kelly and Max. I’m fine.

I don’t know when Andrew will wake Maggie up. So I have to hurry.

Once inside, he heads for the kitchen, thinking I’ll follow. I don’t have time for cooking and eating and all that.

“You know, I just realized. I’ve never seen your room.” I head up the stairs. He follows.

“Hey,” he calls out, “this is easier than I thought.” He is joking, of course. I’m not.

His room is painted dark, midnight blue. There are books
everywhere, piles and stacks on the floor. There is a photo of him surfing somewhere. No doubt about it, he looks like a god in that shot. Lots of other pictures in frames on shelves and his desk of friends, far-off places, his mom and sister. Then I notice a small shot of me, which looks like it was taken from a phone and printed by a normal laser printer on regular paper. It’s taped above his dresser. I’m standing at the microphone on the football field, speaking at Bill’s memorial. The boy who sleeps in this room, with all these books I haven’t read, all this music I’ll never listen to, the beautiful guitar I’ll never hear again, this boy wanted my picture in this room before we were ever together. Does it mean that he always hoped we would be?

He has a big bed, a queen or maybe even a king. Big, pillowy dark blue comforter, every bit as nice as Andrew’s. My stomach jumps knowing that I’ll be under that comforter soon. I’m excited and scared. Still, I know what I want and what I need to do.

He picks up his guitar and starts strumming. He hikes himself up on the corner of his desk so that the chair is free for me. But I lie down on his bed instead. The comforter billows around me like water. It’s going to happen.

“Come here,” I tell him. He puts down his guitar and smiles at me. It’s a smile I’ve never seen before and it sends shivers down the front of me.

He walks over slowly and slides down the length of the bed, the length of my body. He never touches me, but I feel his body heat as he moves closer. His beautiful face hits the pillow next to mine and he turns to me and we just look at each other.

He opens his mouth to say something, but I lean in when his
lips part, and I kiss him. I don’t want to have to tell him what I want. I want him to feel it. We kiss deeper. I take his hand and put it on my bare stomach, under my shirt. But he just rubs my side, my hip. I guide it farther up. And I feel hesitation in his kiss. So I kneel and pull my shirt over my head. But then I see the look on his face. Something is wrong. There’s no time for anything to be wrong.

I bury one hand in his hair, kiss him hard. My other hand reaches down to his belt buckle. As I start to fumble with it, I feel his hand on top of mine, stopping me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, frightened. Maybe I am being clumsy or something.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says softly. “We’ve got all night.” He brushes my hair behind my ear. “We’ve got forever if we want it.”

I’m so embarrassed. He thinks I’m nervous and just doing this to please him. I have to slow down. I make myself smile. I kiss him on the nose.

“Be right back,” I say.

I head to the bathroom down the hall to collect myself. I open the door and it’s dark. I shut the door as I feel along the wall for the switch.

The light goes on. Someone’s cleaned up Sloane’s mess. I wonder if they found those stupid pins she was looking for. I look and see all of Jade’s bath things in my tub. And I smile. We haven’t taken a bath together in more than a year. Maybe she’s too big a girl now. Makeup is next.

I look into the mirror. And she’s there. Just staring back at me. All the rage, and pity, and sadness just explodes inside me.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?!” I demand.

But Sloane just grins that snotty, condescending little smirk. Like she knows something you don’t. Like her silence is filled with meaningful thoughts that are just so above your intelligence level.

“You’re the idiot, you know,” I hiss. “Just tell me one time, try to defend yourself, what you’re doing.”

No answer. Her smile is gone. She’s waiting to hear what she needs to hear.

“You didn’t learn your lesson? You’re going to kill this one too?”

“Sloane, what’s wrong, what are you doing?” His voice cuts through everything.

I whip around.

“You!”

But he doesn’t understand. He just stands there looking stupid with no regret, no sorrow. Not even an apology for what he’s done.

“All of this. All of this! It’s all because of you! You’re the one breaking us up!”

“Calm down. We’re not breaking up. I love you.”

He is so stupid.

“I’m not talking about you and me; no one can break up two people who aren’t even real. You know what I’m talking about. I told you.”

“You told me what, Sloane?”

“Stop calling me that!!”

He registers something. “Should I call you Maggie?”

“Don’t say her name. You have no right to say her name! It’s all your fault. You’re doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Killing me. You’re killing me. You’re the reason she’s doing it. You’re the reason she’s taking me away. Everything was fine before you came. Everything was fine before she wanted you. Before she wanted to kiss you.”

“What’s wrong with me, Sloane? What’s wrong with wanting to kiss me?”

“Because you can
never
be him. You can never, ever and she won’t let you. She’ll take me away before she’ll let you.”

He is talking now. Saying stupid boy things about everything will be okay and how he’ll take care of me and he’s sorry he didn’t know. I can barely see him through my fury and tears.

He comes toward me, reaching out his hands, and I knock them away as hard as I can. He tries to grab me and I hit him and hit him and he can’t stop me. He gets arms around me and I claw at him and scrape his shin with my boot and spit at him. And scream and scream and scream.

He lets go. I back out the door.

“You need to go away.” It is my last warning.

“Not going to happen,” he says. “You can’t get rid of me.”

I screw my face up so tight that he can see the ugliness of how much I hate him. My finger stabs at him.

“Never see me again. Never call. Never see me. Never. Never.”

I turn and run. I fly down the stairs, out his door, onto my bike.

And am gone from him. Forever.

I’m lying in Sloane’s bed. Of course I am. I am Sloane. Whatever being Sloane means. It’s very late. I know that once I sleep, I will never wake. I stare at my stars. I try to focus on each one, to make them anchors to keep me here.

Please. Please, I beg again and again. Please don’t make me disappear. Don’t take me away from my mom and my tree and my world. He’s gone. Maggie, I promise. I’ll never see him again. Everything will be perfect. I’ll be good. I’ll never let anyone be him again.

You did it, anyway. You made him up in your dream. You made up both of them. And you made me do what I did. You have to take responsibility for your dream. It isn’t fair to take me away.

There’s a tapping at the window. I used to imagine that sound was the sorcerer. Trying to get into my room. Trying to get into my bed. Trying to control me. That was before I realized that the wind could make branches of my tree scrape the window. I would lie, a little girl, with my eyes closed and see if there was a pattern to the tapping. As long as it was random, I knew it was the tree. Because if it was him, he would tap four times and then stop. And then two more.

So now I listen with my eyes closed. And I count. One. Two. Three. Four. Silence. My breath catches in my throat. An accident, of course. A coincidence. And then, one. Two. I gasp.

I whirl toward the window.

The sorcerer is there. He will come into my room. Into my bed. He will control me. And I will be so happy.

I don’t have to get up and open the window. He sees my happiness and knows he’s allowed in. Welcomed in.

He crosses the room. He sits on my bed. He smiles the most beautiful smile.

“Happy birthday, beautiful,” he tells me.

There are tears on my face. I barely manage to say, “It isn’t my birthday anymore.”

“I’m sorry I’m late. How does it feel to be sixteen?”

I smile back. I’m so happy he’s here. I don’t know what to do.

“I’ve almost forgotten,” I say. “I’m seventeen now.”

He lies down beside me and gently turns me so that his body curls close to mine like a spoon. All the fear, all the madness, even doubt, all vaporize. I am with Bill. I am in heaven. We are together in the sea of stars above us. He entwines his fingers through mine.

He whispers, “Your mom won’t be angry. She only said you couldn’t date until your birthday. So everyone can know now. Everyone can know that you belong to me and I belong to you. Forever.”

He kisses the back of my neck. My body glows. My heart is so full. I know we will lie like this forever. And that’s all I want. It’s the thought that’s never been more than a heartbeat away for this past year. Since he died.

How comforting to learn what death really is. It’s forever. And that’s a good thing. As long as you’re together. That’s the answer. To the desperate problem I couldn’t solve. How to live without him. Now I know. Love is stronger than death. Stronger than anything. I’ll never be without him again.

I can fall asleep now. I can fall asleep in his arms.

Maggie won’t take me away. At least, not from him.

My eyes close.

“I love you,” I say.

M
y eyes open. I’m lying on my side, spooned into Andrew’s protective embrace. He’s cuddled into me. Even in his sleep he loves me.

So very carefully, an inch at a time, I ease my way free from his arms. I slide from the bed, turning back for a moment to watch him in peaceful sleep. I love him so much.

When I’m dressed, I leave a note. I’ll see him later. I write
I love you
. I haven’t said it out loud before. I will tonight.

I step onto the street. The sky is the clearest blue. The clouds are the purest white, billowing in the gentlest breeze that has cleaned everything imperfect from the air. The sun illuminates the city’s angles with precision and clarity that I’ve never seen before. It is wonderful. As is my life.

I run through the city, seeing everything, everyone. Just as it, as they, truly are. Perfect. Needing no story from my mind to be safe for me.

I run up my steps, hoping to catch my mom and my sister. They’ve already left, but that’s no problem. I’ll track them down.

In the meantime, I wander our apartment. Looking at everything. Touching everything. A blind person who has suddenly been granted the grace of sight. I want to cry with joy. And relief. I’m awake now, for the first time. I’m awake.

I go to my mom’s closet. I pull down the old Olivetti case gathering dust behind shoe boxes. I open the case and run my fingers over the keys of my dad’s ancient typewriter. It had been my grandpa’s, and my dad used it for all the stories he wrote in college. He would threaten to make me use this when I went to college too, saying it built character to write in a careful way because mistakes took time to correct.

I’d like to have character. Maybe this would help.

I decide to write a love letter to my sister that she mustn’t open until her wedding day. A little fanciful, yes, but I’m in that mood, and I’ve got all day. I hope the typewriter still works. And it does, although the little holes in the
e
’s are kind of filled in.