Part 11 (1/2)

that held up the swing when I was a little kid. The tire swings higher and faster. I feel like I'm flying. The joy and lightness of last night returns. I imagine the white bird is above me, circling in the sky. But something tells me I will never see it again. It was a thing of mystery. And actually, in the light of day, I wonder if it was even real. But I don't want to dwell on this question. All I know, all that matters is that I saw it and felt its beauty and let that beauty enter me.

As I rock back and forth on the tire swing, I think about when my dad used to take Nate and me to the playground. We'd crowd onto the tire together, begging our dad to push us. Harder. Harder. As we picked up speed, Nate would throw back his head and laugh wildly, shouting and grinning. I loved his abandon, the way he could just laugh and laugh. Dropping my feet, I drag the swing to a halt. Then, I pull out my pencils and pad. I draw tiny Crosshatch strokes, filling in two little children perched on the tire swing, calling up the pure joy in Nate's eight-year-old face, a dad pus.h.i.+ng them from behind, his face lit with pleasure, as well, and I feel this twinge of happiness.

I spend the rest of the day visiting the middle school we attended together; the Wyatt cornfields, where we used to play spies; the Wilson Farm, where we would take hayrides in the autumn; the skating pond, where we'd go on the coldest days of winter, bundled into our parkas, skates strapped to our feet, and where Nate would sometimes move so quickly, he skimmed the surface of the pond like a bird on wing.

104.

When I was small, probably six or seven, my parents let Nate take me to the pond, just the two of us, and I remember I was wearing so many layers -- unders.h.i.+rt, T-s.h.i.+rt, sweater, sweats.h.i.+rt, parka, ski pants -- that I could hardly move. And down I went in the middle of the pond, too laden with clothes to work my way back onto my feet again. Then Nate, spotting me from the other side, flew to me, grabbed my hands and pulled me upright. Walking me over to the benches at the side of the pond, he helped me peel off my sweats.h.i.+rt, then, pressing a warm hand to my tearstained cheek, he whispered, ”Here you go, Squirt, you're all set.”

I draw and sketch and fill my pad with images of all the places we had loved together. And I can feel the pieces of my heart coming back, glued together with a tenderness, as I revisit all these places, as I allow the memories in, as I let myself really see my town the way I used to when Nate and I were little. And I can almost start to love it again. Almost.

When the sun begins to set, I still have one final place to go. The bent tree off of the county road. It marks the spot where Nate was killed. Slowly, I head through the streets of Lincoln Grove to the county road heading east out of town. My feet move reluctantly on the pedals. I ride along the shoulder of the road and soon come to the part of the guardrail that is dented and misshapen, that is bent in the shape of a Honda Civic. I steer off the shoulder, into the gra.s.s at the side of the road. As 105.

I near the big oak tree, my knees begin to shake, and I start to feel queasy.

”You can do this,” I mutter to myself. I swing my leg over the bike seat and walk it the rest of the way.

Then I crawl beneath the umbrella of tree branches, pausing at the foot of its white-gray trunk. I turn and run my hands over the coa.r.s.e bark, letting my fingers find the evidence of Nate's accident. There it is. A b.u.mpy seam at about waist height. The tree still bears the scar of his collision. The tree shares my hurt. Once again I bring out my pad and begin to draw. But I don't draw Nate or his Honda. I just sketch the tree without its scar, the road without any cars. It is a scene of peace.

When I am done, I sit at the base of the tree and close my eyes, letting the cool autumn breeze find my face. It is nearly dinnertime, and my parents are probably freaking out. I take a deep breath and dig my fingers into the dirt beside me. The moss and dead leaves that have fallen from the oak are soft and damp. There is a sweet, familiar scent in the air, clinging to the ground. Here, now, I feel close to Nate. Really close to him.

Time to go. I pedal away from the oak tree, the disfigured guardrail, but I do not look back at any of it. I ride home.

The lights are on outside the house. Quickly, I push the kickstand down and go inside. My mom is in the kitchen. She looks up as I enter.

106.

”Where have you been? I was worried sick,” she says, her voice bleeding exhaustion and worry.

”Sorry. I should have left a note, I guess,” I reply. ”I was just riding my bike around.” I do feel sorry. Not too sorry, but enough to be contrite.

”Yes, you should have,” she says, her voice short and tight. ”Go wash up, dinner is almost ready.”

Clearly, she isn't going to broach the subject of our fight last night. That is fine by me. I dash upstairs and wash my hands and face, put away my sketch pad and pencils, and repack my book bag with my schoolbooks. Then I return to the kitchen to sit with my mom in silence and eat a tasteless dinner of micro waved carrots and fish sticks.

I can hear the television filtering down from the den, and I feel a flash of anger. Without saying a word, I get up from the table and run up the stairs. I open the door and find my father sitting slumped in a chair, his head in his hands.

”Dad,” I mumble.

No response.

”Dad!” I repeat, louder.

”What is it?” He doesn't even turn to look at me.

”Dad, why don't you come to the kitchen and eat dinner with Mom and me?” I try.

”I'm fine here,” he states flatly, still not meeting my gaze.

”Well, we're not fine out there. Could you please come?” I hate myself for begging, but a sense of urgency, of desperation 107.

has seized me, I feel like if he doesn't meet my eye, doesn't take himself downstairs to sit with us, the whole thing will implode -- our family will implode and we'll never be able to put all the pieces back together.

”Cora, shut the door.”

”Dad --”

”Get out,” he says coldly. ”Just go.”

I feel like he slapped me. I jerk my head around and step out of the doorway. I can't breathe. I pull the door shut hard behind me, but it's not very satisfying, even when the walls shake around it.

Why does he get to behave that way when the rest of us have to pull it together and move on:1 He's my freaking father!

I march back to the kitchen, pick up my fork, and finish eating. My mother and I both pretend that nothing happened. She knows, though. She knows our family is falling apart around us.

I finish eating, put my plate in the sink, and go up to my room. I haven't done any homework, and now Sunday night is breathing down my neck. The house seems to shudder under the weight of the silence.

108.

Chapter Seven.

Monday stretches on and on. I can barely contain my excitement. I can't wait to get to Damian's studio and begin working on my art project. On Nate's project.

It's only lunchtime. I amble into the cafeteria and look for Rachel in our usual spot by the windows. She isn't there. I must have gotten here first, so I go and sit down. It's awfully surprising when I do find Rachel; she's sitting farther back in the cafeteria at a different table, with Josh and the Nasties and the other Nasty satellite, Elizabeth Tillson. What? I try to catch her eye, thinking Rachel will wave me over to join them. But she studiously avoids looking in my direction. And all the time, my stomach is churning, because even if I'm hoping she'll invite me to sit with them, I know she didn't sit at our table -- didn't wait for me to get there -- on purpose. She didn't want to sit with me at all.

Rachel has totally and completely ditched me. And she's clearly embarra.s.sed of me. I eat my lunch quickly, barely chewing my sandwich, the peanut b.u.t.ter lodging in my throat, 109.

against the crybaby lump that's grown there. When I'm done, I gather my things and hurry to the library.

I pull out my history book and pretend to do my homework, but it's useless. My mind won't stop spinning over the image of Rachel sitting at the end of the Nasties' table, not talking to anyone seated near her, and avoiding my eyes. I bet all the other kids from our cla.s.s, the girls I've known my whole life and was even once friendly with, witnessed the whole humiliating debacle, and now, my loser dom is confirmed. It's probably the lead item in the cla.s.s gossip broadcast. Not only the girl with the dead brother, but the girl with no friends. This is it.

I feel like I'm drowning at the bottom of the deepest sea. There is nowhere for me to go. Home is just as bad as school.

Art -- I have art cla.s.s for last period. Thank goodness. I draw a shaky breath of grat.i.tude. And when the bell rings, I walk meekly, my head bowed, through the hallways, all the way down to the far end of the school to the art studio. And as I step in and look all around at the brightly mismatched colors and images plastered on the walls, the lonely hulks of canvas on easels, and students spread around the cla.s.sroom, as isolated and alone as I feel, I become calm. When I reach my stool and easel, I prop up my sketch pad and turn to the drawings I made the day before.

The swimming pool, the park playground, the baseball field, the tree ... all of it from a time when I didn't know unhappiness. Not real unhappiness. These images are from a time 110.

when I knew only love. When bad things happening, when people leaving, was unthinkable.

Is it possible to live, to exist in the world without any connection to another person? To not care about other people, to not care if other people care about you?

I look up and find Damian sitting across the room, his forehead crinkled as he chews his lower lip and rubs a stick of charcoal between his fingers. He's staring intensely at the paper on the easel before him. He concentrates with such ferocity, I think. He doesn't look up.

”Hey, whatcha working on?”

I startle and surface from my creepy staring and ridiculously moody thoughts. Helena is standing in front of me, curiously studying the drawing perched on my easel. Her flaxen hair hangs loose today, falling in untidy curls around her shoulders, ”Huh? Oh, um, just some drawings,” I mutter.