Part 22 (2/2)

I can tell that there's a pretty good chance that I'll burst into tears, too. I take a deep breath and make a concerted effort to keep it together. I look around for Damian. He's standing in the far corner alone, the only one of the artists who isn't accompanied by parents or a crowd of friends. A dark, brooding look shadows his face. My stomach gives a nervous twitch, but I turn back to my parents and tell them to follow me. I lead them into the center of the room, so they can stand in front of the collection of Nate's sculptures and paintings.

The room is really crowded now, bustling with students and parents and some teachers cl.u.s.tered in small groups around each of the pieces. No one notices the three of us as we gather before Nate's work. Both of my parents are gaping in surprise.

They had no idea.

My mother crumples up like a paper doll, chest collapsing in on itself, her shoulders shaking, hand over her mouth. ”My beautiful boy,” she cries. ”He could have been --”

”Mom,” I murmur, not sure what to do.

My father steps in front of me and puts his arm around her, drawing her in to his chest. ”Shh, Marie.” Tears glisten in the corners of his eyes, too, and for the first time in a year, I catch a glimpse of the man he used to be through the gray pall that 257.

painted and stained and changed him, that kept him so far apart from us all these months.

I stand there, just looking at them, an outsider. They fit together. And I am locked out, only a watcher. How I long to be a part of them again, for the three of us to fit together once more.

”Daddy,” I whimper. And he reaches out his hand to me, and I step in and huddle with my mother in the safe embrace of my father's arms.

”He was a good boy,” my father whispers, then lifts his head from the cloud of my mother's and my hair. ”Marie, look, look at this.” My father disentangles himself and moves closer to one of Nate's easels. It is the drawing of the mother and son. ”It's you and Nate.”

My mother wipes her eyes and moves over to my dad. She bends to look at the painting. ”Yes, it is,” she says softly. A small smile crosses her lips. She reaches out a hand as if to caress the painting, then thinks better of it and pulls her hand back. Instead, her fingertips fall onto my hair, and she begins to stroke my head. ”Thank you for doing this, Cora. Thank you for giving this gift to us, even if we didn't know we needed it.”

”I'm so glad you guys came,” I reply, brus.h.i.+ng the tears from my own face.

”Come, Cora, what else is there to see? Do you have anything on display here?” my father asks.

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”I do,” I say, pressing my hands to my cheeks, which I can feel are flushed. ”I'll show you.” My mother takes my hand and they both follow me over to where my map stands atop the base Nate built.

”Oh my goodness,” my mom murmurs. ”This is incredible.”

”Cora, you did this?” my father asks disbelievingly.

”Yes,” I answer. ”Well, Nate built the base. I made the map. What do you think?”

”It's amazing, it's just... It's our town,” my father says, and turns to me, using his nickname for me for the first time since The Accident. ”Rabbit, I'm so proud of you.”

Then, the memory of what I did comes rus.h.i.+ng back, and I think I'm going to throw up.

”Oh, no,” I moan.

”What? What is it?” my mother asks.

”I did something,” I begin. ”Something awful.”

”Whatever it is, we can talk about it,” she says calmly.

”No, I did something terrible. I'm so sorry,” I bawl.. ”Mom, I forged your signature on the permission form for the London art program. I'm so, so sorry!”

”Cora, I know,” my mom answers.

The thickness in the back of my throat starts to rise, and I really begin to worry I might be sick.

”What? What do you mean? How do you know?”

”You didn't put enough postage on the envelope. It came 259.

back last week. I found it, and I saw that you'd forged my signature.”

”Augghh,” comes a strangled sound from my throat. ”I'm so sorry.” The floor, the ceiling, the whole world is spinning, lurching madly. I have messed up so profoundly, I don't know how I'll ever fix it.

My mother continues, ”I've been hard on you, Cor. I know it. But I was so scared that if I let you have too much -- any -- freedom, I would lose you like I lost Nate. I was so frightened, because, I... I failed as a mother. I failed Nate, and I was so scared that I would --” She doesn't finish. If only I could somehow staunch the flow of those terrible words and thoughts, and replace all of the fear and blame and guilt with the knowledge of how much I love and need her and my dad.

Then my mom straightens and glances at my father, who nods. ”I'm really glad you told us about the form before I had to bring it up. It helps me feel like we can trust you again.”

I start to open my mouth, as a spark of hope ignites in me. She waves me to be quiet. ”I am not saying you can or cannot go. We will discuss this at home.”

”We have much to talk about,” my father says, ”including what you've been doing with Damian Archer. But this isn't the place.” The nausea returns slightly.

”Damian is here,” I tell them.

260.

”We know,” my father replies. ”We'd like to talk to him.” The nausea abates slightly. What a roller coaster of a day. I turn to look for Damian, but can't spot him anywhere. He wouldn't leave, would he? I wonder.

”I don't see him. Maybe he stepped outside.” ”Cora,” Helena's voice interrupts, steering me away from my search for Damian. ”You should make a speech,” she says, ”before it's too late and people start to go home. Ms. Calico will introduce you.”

”Really?” I ask, surprised. ”I didn't prepare anything.” ”You should. You should explain about Nate and everything.” My heart starts to beat faster. I wish I could find Damian. ”Okay,” I agree shakily. Helena darts off to find our teacher, not waiting for me to ready myself.

”Good evening, everybody,” Ms. Calico calls out. Gradually, the room begins to settle, as everyone turns to look at her. ”As you know, each year Lincoln Grove High has held an art show, open to all of its student artists. This year's show is special, however. We've made this a gala opening night to honor the life and work of Nathaniel Bradley, who was a student at Lincoln Grove High. This wouldn't have happened without one person, an exceptional artist in her own right, whose map of Lincoln Grove is also on display tonight. Please give a hand for Cora Bradley!”

I can't catch my breath. Everybody is clapping and staring at 261.

me expectantly, and there are a lot of eyes out there. I glance at my parents, who are both smiling at me encouragingly.

”Thanks, everyone,” I begin. ”Thanks for coming and thank you to all the artists who have pieces on display here. Each and every one is phenomenal.” I survey the room and am amazed by how full it is, by how filled it is with different people from every walk of life. ”This is an important date for me. It's the first anniversary of my brother Nate's death. Some of you may have known Nate. He pa.s.sed away one year ago today in a car accident.” The room is silent. ”And in the months since he died, I learned that he was an artist. I never knew this while he was alive. He kept his art hidden, a secret from almost everyone.” I look around for Damian again, but there is no sign of him. ”Damian Archer, Nate's best friend -- my friend -- helped me find some of his artwork. We thought the best way to remember him and to celebrate him would be to include his work in the show. It makes me really happy to see his artwork here alongside everyone else's, and it makes me even happier that there are so many of you here tonight who I don't ordinarily see hanging around the art room.” I smile as some of the kids start to chuckle. ”Congratulations, everybody. And thank you,” I take a step back, and the room erupts into applause. People who are my friends and who aren't, people I've never spoken to once, are looking at me with s.h.i.+ning eyes and clapping as hard as they can.

262.

I don't doubt that tomorrow everything will go back to the way it has always been, but for one night, to come together like this feels like a miracle. ”Thank you, Nate,” I whisper.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn to find Rachel standing before me. ”Hi,” I say.

”Hey,” she replies, then turns to my parents. ”h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Bradley. h.e.l.lo, Mr. Bradley.”

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