Part 24 (1/2)

She pours my gla.s.s and sets it on the coffee table. ”I made this from lemons your mom and dad grew,” she says. ”Your mom gave me a whole bagful last week.”

”I didn't know you saw my mom last week,” I say, surprised.

As Susan pours gla.s.ses for herself and Mitch, she tells me that she has lunch with my mom almost every week, and again it feels strange that so much could be going on without me even knowing.

When my lemonade is half gone, and our conversation subsides for a moment, I pull out the pages I chose for them.

I don't know how to start explaining, so I just tell them everything-how I discovered Ingrid's journal under my bed, and only read a little at a time, and found a suicide note at the end. Susan and Mitch watch me intently as I explain all of this. At one point, Susan reaches over, and squeezes Mitch's hand.

”These are some pages,” I say, placing the copies on the coffee table, ”that I want you to have.”

After the way they look at each other with tenderness, and at me with grat.i.tude, and pick the copies up, I know that they don't expect anything more. They start with Me on a Sunday Morning, Me on a Sunday Morning, turn to turn to Dear Mom, I take it back Dear Mom, I take it back. Susan's chin trembles, Mitch takes her hand. Next, they read, Dear Dad, I'm sorry Dear Dad, I'm sorry. And then they read the suicide note. I just sit quietly and let them go through them all. And even though the entries are obviously really meaningful to them, I still feel like they aren't enough. I mean, these are her parents, parents, which means that they lost the most, more than I did, and I feel like they should have everything. I reach into my bag, ready to give it all up. which means that they lost the most, more than I did, and I feel like they should have everything. I reach into my bag, ready to give it all up.

The bird on the cover is almost all chipped away now. And it feels surprisingly natural, even easy, when I place Ingrid's journal on the coffee table.

”You should have this, too,” I say.

And then.

All at once I remember everything written inside-the way she wanted Jayson to hurt her, her anger at her mom, the creek, the guys. She didn't want them to know. I feel the blood draining from my face, get instantly nauseous. I'm not sure this is something I can take back.

Mitch studies my expression. He clears his throat. ”We have so many of her diaries,” he says. ”You should see them. She kept them ever since she was a little girl. We even have a couple boxes in the garage full of them.”

Susan touches the cover, but doesn't open it. ”We've been reading some from her childhood, before she became ill. It's been a comfort to remember her that way-young and excited about her life.” She shakes her head, picks up the journal, hands it back to me.

”If Ingrid wanted this to stay with you, then you should have it,” she tells me, and she places it back in my hands. I slip it into its familiar compartment. Part of me is relieved, but later, as I walk out, my backpack feels heavier than it has ever felt before.

23.

It is late and dark. Dylan is studying for finals, but I show up at her house and convince her to come out with me. I leave my parked car in front of her white picket fence and we walk to the theater. It is one of the first warm nights of the year. A million stars are out.

I'm relieved to find that the window hasn't been boarded up. I push the drape aside and we climb in.

”I can't see anything,” Dylan says.

I unzip my backpack, pull out a flashlight.

When I click it on, Dylan says, ”So this was part of the grand scheme of your day?”

I nod. Even with the flashlight, we have to feel our way down the aisle to the rows of seats. We choose two right in the center, and I tell Dylan everything about my day, from the moment I woke up until now.

”What about me?” she asks when I'm finished, and holds out her hands. I pull two folders out of my backpack, place one of them in her palms.

She doesn't open it. ”Do you mind if I save it for later?”

I shake my head. ”I gave you a lot,” I say. ”You can read them whenever you want to.”

She slips the folder in her messenger bag. I open the second folder and pa.s.s it to Dylan. I s.h.i.+ne the light for her as she flips through the photographs I borrowed from Ms. Delani.

”What I want,” I say, ”is to see these up there.” I move the light away from the photographs and toward the white screen. ”Do you think there's any way?”

Dylan squints.

”I mean, it might not be possible, but you're good at figuring this stuff out, right?”

I can almost see the procession of ideas filing, neatly and logically, behind her eyes. ”Can you make them into slides?” she finally asks.

”Yes.”

”We'll need a small battery-operated generator, but that's easy. . .”

She thinks a little longer. Then she says, ”Sure. No problem.”

She takes the flashlight from me, strides down the row of seats, and heads up the aisle. I hear her creak up the stairs to the projection room. Above me, through the projection window, the small beam of light appears-there she is, moving things around, untangling cords, making something out of nothing.

Summers, again

1.

Like she did on the first day, Ms. Delani calls us according to where we sit, which means that I'll be last, but that's okay. She's taken down all the photographs from around the room, making s.p.a.ce for our new ones. I choose a book to look in while I wait. Inside, all the pictures are of the photographer's mother.

By the time it's my turn, there are only a few minutes left of cla.s.s. Ms. Delani comes out and thanks everyone for a good year, and tells them they can go, and says, ”Caitlin, your turn.”

I clutch my folder to my chest and follow her to the office.

She closes her grade book. We both know that next to my name are three Ds and a long line of zeros. But I have twelve new photographs in my hands.

She peers at me, apprehensively, through her gla.s.ses.

”Tell me you have something good to show me,” she says.

I s.h.i.+ft all my weight to one foot and stand there like an ostrich. ”I have a series.”

She exhales. ”You have no idea how glad I am to hear that. Why don't you arrange them on the table. Call me out when you're finished.”

So I go back into the cla.s.sroom and lay them all on the big table under the window, where the light is perfect, and makes all the details show. Then I tell Ms. Delani I'm ready.

I don't look at her face as she evaluates my photographs. Instead, I look at my images with her.