Our Song (33 page)

When I opened my eyes again, I was back in my own bed, Annie’s purple dress in a ball on the floor where I left it. I went over to the window and opened the curtains. The sun was shining. It was a new day. This time I really was awake. Gazing down at the sprinklers coming to life, spraying a light mist across my mother’s lush lawn, the hazy details of my dream slowly started coming back to me. As I thought about the girl on the ground beneath the tree, and the one floating above her, I realized it hadn’t been a dream, but a memory. A very real and vivid memory of what happened when I died. And it had been just the way everyone in the meetings described it.

Magical.

CLASSES WERE OVER
and I’d made it through my last high school exam. There were no more excuses. It was finally time to face my English essay. This paper was the last thing standing between me and graduation. Between me and the rest of my life.

I’d found a bunch of plot summaries online and even bought the Cliff’s Notes like Derek had suggested. It would have been easy to cobble something together that was good enough, that would guarantee a passing grade. But as I sat there under the willow tree with the moonlight filtering through the leaves, something in me knew that I had to try my best. If I had learned anything over the last few months, it was that giving up was no longer an option.

There wasn’t a day that went by when I didn’t think about Nick. I knew I’d probably never see him again, and that was hard to accept. But as the days passed, I wondered if I’d already experienced all the moments with him that I was meant to. Maybe I should feel grateful to have met him at all.

I hadn’t heard the song in my head since prom. I had thought it would never go away, that there was more I was supposed to remember. Or maybe I just didn’t need to hear the rest because it had already done its job. Even though I could no longer hear it, I knew it would be a part of me forever.

I leaned against the thick trunk and opened the book to the first page. I needed to go back to the very beginning. I needed to start over.

“Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.”

Unlike all those other times when I couldn’t get past page 10, I didn’t move or stop reading until I reached the end. The further I read, the more I found myself relating to Clarissa Dalloway. She wasn’t just a bored housewife with a perfect life. She was so much more. She was a woman with regrets and dashed hopes, insecurities and flaws. But above all, she was a woman who felt trapped, backed into a corner with no way out.

“Are we not all prisoners?” Mrs. Dalloway asks herself toward the end of the book. “She often went into her garden and got from her flowers a peace which men and women never gave her.”

I realized then that maybe my mother felt that way, too. That we both did. That maybe she and I weren’t so different after all.

I opened my notebook and wrote out the assignment at the top of a clean page:
Virginia Woolf created Septimus Warren Smith as a double for Clarissa Dalloway. In what ways are they similar? In what ways are they different?

I began to write. Within minutes, I lost track of time and where I was. With all these ideas churning in my head, the essay flowed out of me, fully formed. Not only did I finally
understand the question, but I also knew how to answer it. Septimus Smith, a troubled war veteran, is so haunted by disturbing memories from his past that he gives up and commits suicide. Clarissa Dalloway is also haunted, for different reasons. But she doesn’t kill herself. She realizes she has a choice.

She chooses life. Just like I did.

I tore the finished pages from my notebook when I was done. Hopefully Miss Porter would accept a handwritten essay. Somehow it felt more honest this way.

The sun was just rising and a golden light coated the lawn. My stomach growled. I got up and headed for the house. The damp grass squished between my toes, tickling the soles of my bare feet. The garden had changed over the last couple of months. The vines along the fence had grown, now spreading out like octopus limbs. They no longer divided our property from the Grays’ house—they isolated us. The swollen rose bushes had thickened since the spring. The early summer heat invited back the mosquitoes, their buzz filling the air. The sweet, fragrant scent of the blooming roses, lilies, and gardenias blended together into a single intoxicating aroma.

It smelled like home.

I heard a noise as I passed the greenhouse. The door had been left open a crack. My mother was adamant about keeping it shut so that the neighborhood skunks and squirrels couldn’t get in. I went over to make sure no rodents had destroyed her plants, when I saw my mother sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor. Her eyes were closed, her hands resting face-up on her knees.

I paused by the door. Something about her was different. As she inhaled and exhaled each even breath, I realized what it was. Her forehead was smooth, free of the lines I had come to associate with it.

“Olive?” Her eyes popped open.

“I didn’t know you were in here,” I said, backing away.

“It’s okay, stay.” She got up and stretched her limbs.

“What were you doing?” I stepped further inside.

“Oh, nothing.” She tightened the apron string around her waist and hauled a giant bag of earth onto the counter.

“It didn’t look like nothing,” I said, dropping my bag. “I mean, it looked like you were doing nothing on purpose.”

She smiled. “I like how quiet it is here. Sometimes I feel like it’s the only place I can think.”

I reached my hand into the open bag and grabbed a handful of dirt. It felt cool as it sifted through my fingers.

“I’ve been spending a lot of time out here, too,” I said.

She pulled a small shovel from her apron pocket and began scooping out clumps of earth from the bag into an empty pot. “I know.”

I snapped my head up. “You do?”

“Of course,” she said. “Under the willow tree.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I understood it’s what you needed.” She set the shovel aside and started kneading the soil like dough.

Guilt rippled through me. “I’m sorry I ruined your plants.” We still hadn’t talked about it, or any of the horrible things I had said to her that day.

“You didn’t,” she said. “Come here.”

I followed her to the other side of the greenhouse. The sun poured through the east-facing wall onto a row of short, flowerless plants. Their tangled, bone-colored roots poked out from the fresh dirt, sprouting vibrant green leaves. “See?”

“They’re the same ones?” A hint of a fuchsia petal was starting to sprout on one of the plants, replacing the ones I had trampled.

She nodded. “Orchids look delicate but they’re a lot sturdier than you’d think. That’s why they’ve been around since the dinosaur age. They just need a little TLC.”

It reminded me of the lone orchid that thrived in the dead maze at Nick’s, reminded me that life went on even when you thought it couldn’t.

“I don’t want to go to Georgetown next year.” I still wasn’t certain if my acceptance would stand, but staring at the tiny bud on the verge of blossoming, the idea took root. “I want to find a college that’s a better fit for me.” I thought about the spinning globe on Nick’s desk. “And I want to take a year off to see the world.” It wasn’t so I could go find Nick, or anyone else. It was so I could continue finding myself.

“I think you should.” She released the dirt and took my hands in hers. They were soft and warm. “I’ve seen how you’ve changed. How you’re continuing to change and grow. I don’t want to hold you back.”

The warmth of her hands spread through my body. “What about Dad? Do you think he’ll go for it?”

“I know he will. All we both want is for you to be happy.”

She smiled and her whole face lit up, practically morphing her into another person. For the first time, it wasn’t my mother I saw facing me, but a woman with her own path, her own series of moments. Maybe she always looked this way and I was the one who wasn’t paying attention.

She reached for another pot off the shelf to continue planting. When she wasn’t looking, I snuck my camera out of my bag and started shooting.

“I look awful!” she protested, smoothing out her hair with her muddy hand. The sun picked up a stray green leaf that had gotten stuck in it.

“You actually look really beautiful, Mom.”

“Oh please,” she said, shooing the air. “Wait, you got it! Is it the one you wanted?”

She was referring to my brand new 35 mm Nikon camera purchased under Annie’s expert guidance. It was an early graduation present from my parents, even though my final transcript hadn’t come in yet.

“Yes, and it’s perfect.”

“Why don’t we go inside,” she said, putting her arm around me. “I made some coffee.”

When we came in the kitchen, my father and Noah were dipping into the icing of a cake that rested on the counter.

“Hey, that was supposed to be for dessert tonight,” my mother chided. But I could tell she wasn’t really angry, because she was smiling.

“Not our fault you forgot to hide it,” my dad said, a smear of chocolate running across his chin. “Right, buddy?”

“Right!” Noah agreed, swiping his finger across the top again.

My mother took down four plates and grabbed a handful of forks before sitting down at the table. “I guess we’re having cake for breakfast.”

“Yes!” Noah pumped his fist and reached up to high five my dad.

I was suddenly filled with a deep sense of love and gratitude for my family. It felt like I was floating again, full of peace and calm and hope all wrapped into one. The floating feeling wasn’t just reserved for dying, or for those few suspended moments in the in-between. It was happening in my real life, too. It reminded me of how I felt on the day Noah was born. Complete. Like a family.

“I’ll be right back,” I said, already moving toward the hall.

I ran to my room, my head spinning with all the possibilities that lay ahead. No one was holding me back and my life was now firmly in my own hands. It was all up to me. But there was one thing I needed to do before this new chapter could begin.

Pulling a fresh piece of paper from the printer tray, I chose my favorite purple pen from the jar on my desk and began to write a letter.

It was to Nick.

Just like with the essay, the words poured out of me. I may not have been able to say these things to his face, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t express them in some other way. I wanted to thank him for seeing the real me before I even knew she existed. For believing in me and giving me the courage to get to
where I was now. For waking me from a deep sleep that began long before I crashed Derek’s car. And finally, I wanted to tell him about the song. Maybe Theo had a song, too. I hesitated before writing one last thing. I told him that I had seen him at the club that day standing on the roof of his car, that I had run after one of the golf balls and kept it, because I had seen something in him that I wanted to hold on to. Only now it was time that I gave it back so he could find the peace that he deserved.

My heart twitched as I signed my name, a reminder of my old pain and how far I’d come. I neatly folded the paper into three, put it in an envelope, and got dressed. On my way out, I grabbed the golf ball and slipped it in my pocket.

“We saved you a piece!” my dad said when I came back to the kitchen. He held out a plate with the saddest looking excuse for a slice of cake.

“Ahem.
I
saved it, or at least I tried to,” my mom said, playfully taking the plate from him as Noah tried to swipe his finger across the icing.

“I think you missed a bite,” I said, pointing to the trail of crumbs that traveled down my father’s tie.

“You know what I think this family needs?” my dad announced, popping the fallen pieces into his mouth. “An adventure. School’s out so I think this calls for a day off. Where should we go?”

“Disneyland!” Noah yelled.

“Marian?” my dad asked, clearing it with her.

“I think it’s a great idea,” she said, beaming. “Olive, how does that sound?”

“Perfect. There’s just a quick errand I have to run first.”

“Oh, I’ll take you,” my mom volunteered. “Let me just change.”

“Actually,” I said, “this is something I need to do myself. Can I borrow the car?” I tucked my hair behind my ear. It had grown so much these past few weeks that it stayed in place on its own.

My parents exchanged a glance.

“Why don’t you take the Buick,” my father said, reaching into his pocket for the keys. “We’ll be here waiting for you when you get back.”

• • •

I turned the radio up and sang along the whole way to Nick’s house. I had no idea where he was, so Aunt Bea was my only hope that this letter would eventually find him.

It was still early when I arrived. As the house emerged in the distance, I braced myself for a surge of sadness to overcome me. But with the morning sunlight casting a warm, pink glow across the weathered stones, it reminded me of Nick’s smile, of his voice, of everything he had given me. And I felt at peace.

I decided against knocking and instead left the letter on the welcome mat by the front door, using the weight of the golf ball to keep it in place. I took in the house one last time before getting in the car and starting back home.

Before I knew it I was back on Vista Boulevard, at the corner of Hyacinth Circle. Without thinking, I turned left and started up the street. As I drove, the scent of hyacinths blew in through the open windows, jogging another buried memory.
Various things jumped out at me as I edged up the road, like a bright yellow mailbox in the shape of a birdhouse.

And then I saw it. The street lamp at the curve in the road. Looking closely, I could still make out the dent in the pole and the faint trace of the black tire marks leading up to it.

This was where it happened.

I slowed the Buick to a crawl. I waited for my heart to skip, for my breath to catch, for something to happen. And then I was reminded of a line in
Mrs. Dalloway
that had stayed with me for days: “Life, London, this moment of June.” It described my life, too. Only instead of London I was in Vista Valley. Alive and happy, full of hope.