Текст книги "Love Letters to the Dead"

Автор книги: Ava Dellaira

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“You want my English paper, babe?”

“It was really good.”

He looked at her for a moment and smiled. “Okay,” he said. “Well, who’s next then? I can’t be the only one with something to burn!” The little fire was getting hungrier, eating up the pages. The sun was low and miming the blaze.

Hannah threw in her tests, and then she threw in her dried flowers and cards from boys, and she looked back over her shoulder at Natalie. The fire lit up both of their faces, and Natalie beamed back. Kristen threw in her locker pictures of New York, because now that she’s really going there, it’s not just a dream anymore.

I wanted to take a turn, and I thought about my notebook filled with my letters to all of you. I thought about how they would look, burning in the fire. I wondered if the flame would carry them up to you, wherever you are.

But when I reached for my notebook, I couldn’t do it. Somewhere, it seemed, in my letters to you, was a story I had told. Something true. So I decided that I’m going to turn all of my letters in to Mrs. Buster. School is still open for a few days for teachers to finish their grades, so tomorrow or the next day, I’ll go and leave them in her teacher’s mailbox. For some reason, maybe because she gave me the assignment in the first place, I want her to read what I wrote.

So instead of burning the whole notebook, I took the last blank page out and threw it into the fire. I watched the white page, with its fine blue lines, as it burned. It made me cry for all of you who should have had more time. And for May.

After the fire was done eating my blank page, everyone was looking at me. “I miss my sister,” I said simply, and it was nice to be able to just say it out loud. Hannah put her arm around me as I wiped the tears from my eyes. “She would have loved you guys,” I added.

“If she was anything like you, we would have loved her, too,” Tristan said, and smiled.

When the moment was over, we looked down and noticed that the fire was still getting bigger, so Tristan went to get the garden hose to put it out. He squirted Kristen and made her squeal, and then he squirted us all, and we tackled him for the hose and squirted back. All of our clothes were wet after that, but none of us cared, because it was summer-night warm out.

As the sun fell over the horizon, we went to sit on the deck, and I texted Sky to ask if he would come and meet us. When I saw his truck pull into the driveway, my heart leapt. He walked up wearing his same leather jacket, even on the brink of summer. He looked as beautiful as he did the first day I saw him, but more than that even, because now I knew him.

He came up to sit with us, and the sky opened wide, the way it does in summer, to let a lightning storm in. We all watched it for a while, and Kristen brought out a bottle of her parent’s champagne and popped it, and we toasted each other. I took a sip, but I gave the rest of mine to Tristan.

Then I said, “Hey, Tristan?”

“Yes, Buttercup?”

“I think that next year in college, you should start a band.”

He smiled a soft sort of smile that didn’t go with his normal pointy edges. “You’re right. I should.”

“You could name it the Regular Weirdos.”

He laughed. “I love that.” It was quiet a moment. Then he said, “Well, no need to wait for college, right?” He turned to Hannah and said, “Are we going to do a song together, or what?”

Hannah got a spark in her eyes. This was maybe going to be the first time that she would sing for people, other than me or Natalie. She swallowed and nodded. We followed Tristan as he went to get his guitar and set it up in the living room and pulled up a stool for Hannah to sit on. “What do you want to sing?” he asked. Hannah wiped her palms on her dress and thought about it for a long minute. She said, “‘Sweet Child O’ Mine,’” which was all of our New Year’s song. Tristan grinned and started right away with the first strings of the guitar that vibrate through your body. Hannah’s voice shook for a moment, coming out quiet, but as she kept singing she got louder and louder, until the song was pouring out of her. She looked at Natalie as she sang. Tristan looked at Kristen as he strummed the guitar hard and mouthed along with Hannah. And I looked at Sky.

I grabbed his hand and whispered under the music, “I really want to kiss you.”

He took my face in his hands, and it was a different kiss than it’s ever been. I didn’t feel like a light that he was crowding toward anymore, like a street lamp, or even like a moon. I felt like we both had the sun inside of us. Our own ways to stay warm. So when our bodies came together, it was the hottest thing I’d felt.

As Tristan and Hannah got to the end of the song, we all bounced up and down and shouted along, “Where do we go now?” Hannah was beaming, and Tristan played the end again. I can’t describe how it felt, being there right then, so close together, on the edge between who we were and who we wanted to be.

Sometimes when we say things, we hear silence. Or only echoes. Like screaming from inside. And that’s really lonely. But that only happens when we weren’t really listening. It means we weren’t ready to listen yet. Because every time we speak, there is a voice. There is the world that answers back.

When I wrote letters to all of you, I found my voice. And when I had a voice, something answered me. Not in a letter. In a new way a song sounded. In a story told on a movie screen. In a flower shooting through a crack in the sidewalk. In the flutter of a moth. In the nearly full moon.

I know I wrote letters to people with no address on this earth. I know you are dead. But I hear you. I hear all of you. We were here. Our lives matter.

Yours,

Laurel

EPILOGUE

Dear May,

I had a dream about you last night. I watched you walk on the tracks, your moonlit arms balancing you like thin white wings. I saw you turn to look back at me. I felt your eyes catch mine. I saw you fall. And I saw you hovering there, midsky, like you were standing on air. I kept begging myself to move my feet. But I couldn’t. They were stuck. I kept thinking you were waiting for me. There was still a moment. If I could just walk forward, I could reach out and take your hand and pull you back across the tracks to the land. But my body was frozen. I tried with all my strength, but lifting my foot was as hopeless as shoving a mountain. It was the most awful feeling. I was in a panic, trying to get to you.

Then I heard you whisper, “Laurel,” as you turned your back to me. “Look.” And that’s when I saw it. I saw you take your wings out. I saw them, paper-thin but stronger than anything, glittering like water. They weren’t broken. They were carrying you into the sky. You got smaller and smaller, until you turned into a pinpoint of light, same as a star. And I knew you were there. And everywhere.

When I woke up, I went into your bedroom. Aside from your clothes that I borrowed (but always put back) and your Nirvana poster I tore off of the wall (sorry), everything was just where it was the last night we left for the movies. I sat on your bed for a moment. And then I took some of your Mexican candles to burn in my room, and your collection of seashells that I wanted to spread on my desk. This time, I wasn’t afraid of moving things and making new places for them. My room is pretty much the same as it’s always been, too, ever since you moved out of it when you got to high school. And I want it to be more like who I am now. I want it to have some pieces of you, together with other things, like the Janis Joplin record Kristen gave me before she left for New York, and the heart that Sky carved me for Christmas, and the glow-in-the-dark stars that have been there since we were kids.

When I was looking on your bookshelf, I found an E. E. Cummings book. You had a bookmark in it, the one you’d made yourself in third grade. May was written in blue glue glitter, laminated over. I read the poem you’d marked, and really, it was so beautiful I started to cry. I loved the whole thing, and the last line was perfect: i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart).

I brought the book into my room with the bookmark still in it. I read that poem again and again, and I knew somehow you’d marked it for me to see. I knew I was supposed to find it. May, I carry you in me.

Still, it doesn’t change how much I miss you. Every time something happens, any little thing, I wish that I could tell you about it. Sky and I got back together. Sometimes my mind races, and I worry about what will happen after next year, when he leaves for college. But I try to take a deep breath and stay where I am. I have my first job this summer, at the city pool snack bar. My friends Natalie and Hannah come to meet me sometimes when I get off late in the afternoon. Hannah reads magazines and Natalie draws and we all drink Cokes and eat Goldfish. They don’t ever get in, but I love to swim like I always did. I love how you can push water away and it always comes back. I run into Janey there sometimes, too. You’d be surprised if you could see her now. She comes with her boyfriend and wears a pink and white polka-dot bikini. It was awkward at first, because she was mad at me for disappearing on her after you died. But it’s getting better. Now she’ll sometimes come over and sit with me and Natalie and Hannah. Today, we were talking about the time when you taught us to flip off the diving board. We were both terrified until you made it look so easy.

I wrote all of these letters for school this year, and it helped me a lot. When I finally gave them to my teacher (I left them in her mailbox at school), she called me to say she was proud of me for handing them in. I thanked her for reading them. Then she said that I needed to get help to deal with all of it. But I told her Mom and Dad already started making me see this therapist. The therapist is actually nice, and she talks to me like I am smart. I’d told Mom what happened when she got back from California, and after that Mom told Dad. “I’m sorry we let you down, Laurel,” he said. “I’m sorry we let your sister down, too.” He looked like someone had shot him in the heart. I just hugged him. I didn’t know what else to do.

May, I realize this now—it’s not that I shouldn’t have tried to tell you about Billy. It’s that I should have told you sooner, and maybe then you could have told me things, too, and neither of us would have ever had to go back there. I think that if you were still here, we could have helped each other. I think that you would have walked away from the ledge you were on, and everything bright in you would have kept glowing. I can’t bring you back now. But I forgive myself. And I forgive you. May, I love you with everything I am. For so long, I just wanted to be like you. But I had to figure out that I am someone, too, and now I can carry you, your heart with mine, everywhere I go.

Today I decided I had to do something. I knew it was time. After I went through your room, I went to find Dad, who was listening to baseball like usual. He turned down the volume right away when I walked in.

I asked, “How are the Cubs doing?”

“Three games out of first. Cross your fingers for us.”

I smiled and showed him that my fingers were actually crossed. Then I said, “Dad?”

“Laurel?” he teased.

“I want to scatter May’s ashes.”

He was not expecting this. He swallowed. “Oh.” And then he tried to recover. “Well. What were you thinking?”

“I think in the river.”

I know I could have saved your ashes to put into the ocean, but I wanted you to have the journey, all the way with the currents, to the open sea. And I know that when I finally get to see the waves washing on the shore, to hear them, I will feel you there.

Dad said, “Okay. I think that’s a nice idea.”

“Can we go?” I asked.

“Right now?” His voice jumped.

I nodded. “And we have to go get Mom.”

Dad swallowed. “Okay,” he said, and he got up, the baseball game still murmuring in the background.

I called Mom at Aunt Amy’s house, where she’s still staying. When I told her we were coming, she didn’t argue, or ask any questions even. She just said, “Okay.” Aunt Amy was out for the afternoon with this guy Fred who she met at her church. He’s really nice, much better than the Jesus Man. I nicknamed him Mister Ed in my mind, because he has long white hair that he wears in a dignified ponytail and a horse nose.

Mom and Dad were quiet with each other in the front seat as we drove. I sat in the back, holding the jar of ashes tight, mostly noticing how heavy it felt, and thinking of what it contained. What’s left of what your body was—once the girl with bare shoulder blades, giggling, once the girl galloping an imaginary horse, once the girl sleeping in her sequined red dress—was now ash in a jar. Grains of bone. But then, I knew it wasn’t you anymore. You were somewhere more.

After we parked at our spot, Mom and Dad followed me out onto the tracks. And as I walked across them, it became the place it had always been while you were alive. The place we first discovered when we came for walks with Mom and Dad, the two of us running ahead of them and chasing the sky. The place we spent hours sitting, talking, and playing Poohsticks. The river we’d loved in every season was moving quietly now for summer. I handed Mom the jar first, and she reached in and took the ashes in her hands. As she let them go, her eyes filled with tears. She reached out for me as she passed the jar to Dad. He scattered a handful and said, “May, this land is your land.”

Remember? That song he’d sing us? From California, to the New York Island, From the redwood forest, to the Gulf Stream waters … He was right. It is your land, all of it. You are everywhere in it. The whole big world we dreamed of.

When Dad handed the jar to me, I poured out the rest of the ashes and watched the wind carry them down to the water. Little bits still stuck to my fingers. I said, “She’s free now.”

And then Dad started sobbing like a little kid. I’ve never seen him that way before. I went to hug him. Mom stood off to the side, but eventually she came over, too, and all of our bodies were shaking together.

When it was over, Dad ruffled my hair and said, “I love you, Laurel.”

“I love you, too, Dad.”

“You’re strong, but you’re still our baby girl,” Mom said. Her eyes met Dad’s and held on to them for a moment. “We’re proud of you. Your sister is, too.”

I smiled at them and asked, “Do you want to play Poohsticks?”

They laughed. Dad said, “I haven’t thought about that game in years.”

“May and I still used to play together,” I said, “after you taught us here. We’ll do one for her, too.”

So we crossed the tracks onto the forest side to look for sticks. Mom picked one with a pretty knot on the wood. Dad’s was like a walking stick. I got myself one with the bark still on, and I got you a smooth one, straight and strong. We went back on the bridge and leaned over the edge, and “One, two, three, drop,” Dad counted. And as we ran to the other side to see, yours won! I told them it’s because you were hurrying toward the sea.

I imagined your stick, washing in the waves for hundreds of years, turning to driftwood, smooth and hard like stone. I imagined a little girl finding it on a beach so many years later. Saving it on her shelf, where she put the things that made her feel like the world was magical.

May, I decided that I might want to be a poet when I grow up. Which is pretty much now, because I guess this is what growing up is like. So, I wrote my first poem this week. I wrote it for you. Before we left the bridge, I read it out loud to you.

A Love Letter for My Sister

A ghost cannot open an envelope. Still I address

this to you—I am saving this world for you, see.

River water runs. Fields fill with golden.

Apples bitten. A ghost cannot open

an envelope. A ghost cannot run.

The road travels its forever distance.

Two girls pause by a bridge, to notice.

The fall leaves don’t fall hard.

The spring lasts forever, after a storm.

I am opening this envelope for you, see.

An open blue flower. A paper bag holds a candle.

I am letting the world open me.

A leaf falls. A lead smudge

leads to a girl in a red dress.

I am reading the letters you meant for me to see.

I hope that you will open the envelopes,

so I am opening the world inside of me.

I am sending my letters to you.

The river goes to the ocean.

The ocean sounds infinite.

We are big enough to hear it.

Both of us.

Love always,

Your sister, Laurel

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

When I think about the fact that Love Letters to the Dead is now a book that exists not only in my head or heart or on my computer screen, but in the world, gratitude feels like an understatement. I offer my most full-hearted thank you! to everyone who made it so.

To Stephen Chbosky, my dear friend and mentor, who told me I should write a novel to begin with, then gave it his boundless support: thank you for letting me be a part of telling your stories and for helping me learn to tell mine.

To Liz Maccie, who was the first person to read the very first draft of this book: thank you for seeing what it could become and for your unconditional love and encouragement that gave me faith to carry it through. Your friendship is a true guiding light.

To Hannah Davey, who shared my first days of high school and who has been my forever best friend ever since (and who is happily also a genius reader): thank you for making memories with me that become stories, for sharing stories with me that become memories, and for growing up with me for so long.

Doug Hall, my love, I am so grateful for you every day. Thank you for not only helping me to become a better writer, but for helping me to become who I needed to be to finish writing this story.

I have been astoundingly lucky to work with the brilliant Joy Peskin, who is a dream of an editor and who has treated Laurel and her family and friends with the utmost attention and generosity. Joy, thank you for seeing what I’d kept hidden and helping me to bring it onto the page and into the light.

To my wonderful agent, Richard Florest, thank you for believing in this story from the beginning and fighting for it with such vigilance and compassion at every step along the way. A book couldn’t have a better friend.

To the people at FSG: I am wowed by you all and so grateful that you have embraced this story and lent it your hearts and amazing minds. Thank you especially to Katie Fee, Molly Brouillette, Caitlin Sweeny, Holly Hunnicutt, and Andrew Arnold for all that you have done to shepherd Love Letters to the Dead into the world.

To my friends and early readers, Anat Benzvi, Kai Beverly-Whittemore, Michael Bortman, Matt Bradly, Sean Bradly, Willa Dorn, Lauren Gould, Lianne Halfon, Will Slocomb, Katie Tabb, and Sarah Weiss, thank you for your support, inspiration, and insight. This book wouldn’t be what it is without you. Thank you also to all of my wonderful teachers at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, the University of Chicago, and the Albuquerque Academy, who changed my life and made this book possible for me. Thank you to Carol Hekman. And thank you to my stepmom, Jamie Wells, for her support and kindness.

To Kurt Cobain, Judy Garland, Elizabeth Bishop, Amelia Earhart, River Phoenix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Amy Winehouse, Heath Ledger, Allan Lane, E. E. Cummings, and John Keats, thank you for your beautiful lives and work, which continue to inspire me and so many others.

To my father, Tom, thank you for your endless supply of love and encouragement, honesty, guidance, and wisdom. For a lifetime of love and our lives together. I am so proud to be your daughter.

And most of all, to my sister, Laura, my fellow fairy and partner in all things magical: I am so grateful that I get to grow up with you and for all that you’ve taught me along the way. I love you more than the whole universe.

RESOURCES

If you or someone you know needs help, please consider contacting one of these organizations:

Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network

www.rainn.org

1-800-656-HOPE

Suicide Prevention Lifeline

www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org

1-800-273-TALK

Substance Abuse & Mental Health Services Administration

www.samhsa.gov

1-800-662-HELP

National Child Abuse Hotline

www.childhelp.org

1-800-4-A-CHILD