The Catastrophic History of You And Me (26 page)

And then I was flying through the air, the smell of the bike’s burning fuel, and my burning hair, and our burning dreams.

“Angel,”
I heard him call to me from a thousand miles away.
“Where are you? Please don’t go.”

As the burning slid over my mouth and around my throat—as I braced myself for the end—my thoughts turned back to Patrick’s list of words.

To the very last word he had written down.

Acceptance

I saw Larkin’s blade flash in the moonlight, inches from my skin.

“. . . ashes to ashes . . .”

Please.

“. . . dust to dust . . .”

No, please, stop.

“. . . give her peace . . .”

I saw the lightning strike down hard into the only thing I’d had left. My heart.

My soul
.

I felt the old wall of flame shoot through me and I cried out, begging for the end—begging for someone to please,
please
make it stop.

Then, from somewhere far off in the distance, a shrill, terrible siren began to wail. Louder and louder and louder until it became so intense I thought my eardrums might explode.

Until I felt someone’s hands wrap around mine. A lifeboat sent to rescue me from the searing, mind-numbing heat.

Warm, safe, familiar hands.

Once again, I opened my eyes.

Dad.

He was crying. “You’re going to be all right, kiddo. You’re going to be all right.”

I could hear the ambulance blasting its shrill
WARNING-WARNING!
as we sped through the streets of San Francisco. I could see the fear in my dad’s eyes, and hear the urgency in the driver’s voice as it crackled over the radio, letting the hospital know we were on our way.

Female. Fifteen. Acute stress cardiomyopathy.

“Dad?”

“I’m here, Brie. I’m not going anywhere.”

I’d been so angry with him for so long. So incredibly angry. The thought of him picking another family over ours broke my heart all over again. It broke for Mom and Dad and Jack and Hamloaf and me; for everything we’d ever been and everything we were
going
to be.

But staring up at him from the back of the ambulance, I had a better sense of why he had done what he did. I still didn’t like it—I still didn’t agree with it—but thanks to Larkin, I finally understood.

Sometimes remembering hurts too much.

Seeing my dad like this—seeing how much he cared, and how much he loved me, regardless of the mistakes he had made—I couldn’t help but to forgive him. To forgive him for not being perfect.

Because really, who is?

I decided then that if I deserved a second chance, so did he.

I squeezed his hand back as best I could. Felt a final tear roll its way down my cheek, landing right along the groove of my collarbone. And as the beeping of my heart monitor began to fade, I looked into my father’s eyes and dared to make one last wish. I knew it probably couldn’t change anything.

But I could still hope.

“Take care of each other.”

And, just like that, I passed away.

PART 6

acceptance

CHAPTER 46

all you need is love

I
walked through the night, through the fog and the rain and the starry skies, until I reached the house.

Number 11 Magellan Ave.

The edge of my driveway. There was still one thing left to do.

Slowly, I began the long walk up the hill toward my house. Past the yellow and white begonias lining the drive. Past the hedge where one time Dad had shown us a nest of baby blue jays. Past the oak tree where Jacob had carved his and my initials with his Swiss Army knife.

And one by one, in little flickers of light, all the ghosts came out to play.

I saw Jack, riding the red three-wheeler Grandma and Grandpa brought him on a birthday. Me, thirteen, practicing my spin-stop on my Rollerblades. Emma, Tess, and Sadie in an endless hula-hoop battle. Dad, washing his car, splashing Mom with the hose in a sneak attack as she walked out to get the mail. The two of them, drenched. Laughing.
Happy
. The glare of the summer sun, peeking in through the Northern California clouds. Hamloaf, running through the sprinkler, barking and biting at the water. I could hear it all and see it all and feel it all—all of the memories swirling and sparkling around me.

My yesterday and my now and my always and forever.

I turned around and saw Patrick watching me from the edge of the lawn. Felt my stomach do a triple somersault off the high dive as he began to walk toward me.

“
How
?” I asked him, my voice shaking. “How did you get here?”

“Let’s just say Crossword Lady owed me a pretty big favor after a lifetime of help with her puzzles.” He gave me a funny look. “Though . . . she
did
mention something about making sure to always use a pencil. Whatever that means.”

I couldn’t believe what he was saying. Was Patrick finally free? Really and truly
free
? “Did she pardon your Lost Soul–ness, or something?” I said breathlessly. “Can she even do that?”

“Nah.” He waved his hand. “I was just joking. Crossword Lady didn’t do anything.” He paused. “
You
did.”

I felt my cheeks go ultra-violet and quickly looked down at my feet. Patrick lifted my chin gently. Our eyes met. “I guess maybe once in a while the universe just knows a good thing when it sees it,” he said, smiling. “Either that or our respective terrible karmas must’ve canceled each other out.”

I laughed. “I like Option A.”

“Option A it is!” He threw his hands up and cheered. “Now there’s a story for the grandkids.”

“Thought we were going to try and keep things PG?” I teased.

“Well”—he pulled me in closer—“maybe PG-13.”

Then he kissed me.

And wow. Just wow.

Okay, YES. I am definitely going to need to see a replay. Yes, yes, yes.

Fine by me,
Patrick said inside my head. He leaned in for another kiss.

“Hey!” I dodged it at the last second. “Don’t kiss and spy!”

“No can do, lil’ lady,” he said. “That mind of yours is way too interesting.” He leaned in again, and this time—as fate would have it—I did not escape.

After a loooong series of instant replays we finally turned around together to face my old memories.

I knew he could see them too. I knew he understood.

He nodded for me to go ahead. “Take as much time as you need. I’ll be waiting right here.”

“No,” I said. “Come with me.”

We climbed the porch stairs one by one, finally pausing at the front door. It was weird. I had been locked out for so long that I didn’t really know what to expect. I took a deep breath and slowly reached out my hand.

This time, the metal knob turned on the first try.

The house was quiet. Still early morning.

We made our way through the living room and up the stairs to the second floor, where I saw my parents’ bedroom door cracked open. I peeked in carefully, and right away noticed three pairs of feet (well, four if you count Hamloaf) sticking out from the cream-colored comforter I’d snuggled into a million times.

But it was seeing who those feet belonged to that brought tears to my eyes.

Mom.

Jack.

And Dad
.

“He’s here,” I whispered. “He’s here where he belongs.”

My wish had come true. It had made a difference.

I leaned in and kissed his cheek, then walked around to Mom’s side of the bed.

Oh, Mom.

She looked so beautiful, and had fallen asleep with her glasses on for the millionth time. I focused my energy and removed them slowly, careful not to make a sound. She stirred a little as I folded and placed them on the bedside table, but kept her arm wrapped around Jack, who was curled up in his Batman pj’s—the ones I had given him the very last Christmas I’d been alive. He had almost outgrown them now, his arms and legs sticking out a bit too far on each end. It reminded me a little bit of Alice, when she’d eaten the funky mushroom.

For some reason, I couldn’t help feeling relieved, knowing that maybe my brother wouldn’t forget me after all. Even when he was all grown up and living somewhere else with his own family to take care of, he’d still have the memory of those pj’s. (But just in case, I made a mental note to arrange for an anonymous package to be sent to the house around Christmas.)

I reached over and tickled Hamloaf’s front paw. “Good boy.” His ears fluttered and he rolled over onto his spotty belly, snoring away. I hoped he was dreaming of me.

In that instant, watching his chest rise and fall in perfect rhythm—a peaceful feeling came over me. In some small way, I had helped to rewrite my family’s history. I was still gone, but Dad had found another way to deal with his grief. A way that didn’t involve another woman.

They were going to be okay.
We
were going to be okay.

“Here.” Patrick handed me my charm necklace, just as shiny as the first day I’d bought it, despite everything it had been through. “Why don’t you leave it for them?”

I suddenly felt confused. I had traded my necklace so that he could be free—so that Patrick could finally move on. How could he give it back?

“But it’s yours,” I said. “I gave it to you.”

“Don’t need it.” He put his hand over my heart. “I’ve got the real thing now. Way better.”

I blushed for about the eightieth time, and ran my fingers over the golden heart. Perfectly warm. Perfectly smooth. I kissed it once, gently, then leaned over and put it down on my parents’ mahogany dresser, right next to our family portrait.

I had a feeling they would know it was from me.

Before I turned to leave, something caught my eye. A framed black-and-white photograph I was sure I’d never seen before.

I leaned in for a closer look.

Wait a sec. That’s impossible. Isn’t it?

There, smiling up at me from behind the glass, were Emma, Sadie, and Tess—all dressed up and laughing beneath a million sparkling party lights. Above them, a handmade banner (decorated with what appeared to be a million different kinds of cheeses) hung across the room on display.

PCH JUNIOR + SENIOR PROM 2011

IN MEMORY OF BRIE EAGAN

(WE LOVE YOU, BRIE!!!!!)

“Oh. My.
God
.” I spun to face Patrick. “I think . . . I think my friends threw me a
cheese
-
themed
prom.” Our eyes met and within seconds we had broken into hysterical laughter. It was, without a doubt, the most ridiculously awesome party anyone had ever thrown for me. Period.

Patrick finally caught his breath and pointed at the glass. “So, who’s the lucky guy?”

“Who?” I said, still giggling. “What guy?” I leaned in for another look.

“Shut the front door.” I pinched myself a couple of times to make sure I wasn’t asleep and drooling back in my old booth at Slice. But no, the pinches hurt. I was definitely awake. Definitely still in my parents’ bedroom, and definitely still gazing at the most wonderful photograph of all time.

The reason it was wonderful?

Because there, standing right behind my best friends, his arms outstretched and his smile captured until the end of time, was
Jacob
.

I was completely blown away. How in the world had I missed him?

The tux,
I realized.
He’s wearing a tux.

My eyes filled with frantic, happy tears. “What day is it? What
month
is it?!”

Patrick glanced quickly at Dad’s iPad alarm clock, on the far bedside table. “June. June twelfth.”

June 12. June 12. JUNE 12.

I checked the photo again to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. “It’s him
,
” I whispered. “It’s really
him
.”

My first love was smiling. He was happy. And most important of all, he was
alive
. The picture was all the proof I needed. Our prom had come and gone. And Jacob Fischer had lived to see it.

He had lived
.

I threw my arms around Patrick, breathing in his soft leather jacket and feeling like all was finally right in the world.

My weird, perfect world.

He kissed me sweetly on the forehead. “
Ecce potestas casei
. Behold, the power of cheese.”

We stayed a little while longer watching my family sleep, but finally made our way back into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind us with a quiet click. I walked past the bathroom and linen closet, then Jack’s room. Only one room left. A single doorway waiting patiently at the very end of the hall.

Closed for business. Under construction. Nobody home.

But I’m home now.

I pushed my bedroom door open and was instantly met with a blast of icy air. The rose-petal-pink carpet crunched a little beneath my feet as I walked inside. My room. My bed. My windows and bookshelf and rows and rows of books and the comforter that I’d slept with every night since I was little, one leg in, one leg out. My baby blanket—Fuzz—all yellow and worn with the little white fuzzies I used to twirl as I drifted off to sleep.

The room was dark, dusty, and eerily still. A sleeping tomb, locked away in bad dreams and broken hearts and sad memories. From the way things looked, nobody had dared step foot in here since I’d been gone. I walked over to the window seat, once cozy and full of pillows, where Jack and I used to play Connect Four. The pillows were stacked neatly in the corner. The drapes were pulled closed. Windows locked.

So I unlocked them.

I pulled back the drapes, tried lifting the windows as hard as I could. They were stuck, rusted firmly in place, so I pushed and tugged and yanked until finally,
finally,
I heard one of the seals begin to break free.

Come on, come on.

I felt it budge a little farther.

Open, open.

Beads of sweat broke out across my forehead.

Do it. Do it now.

I heard a sudden sharp crack and cried out as the window flew open and warm morning breeze began pouring in all around me—swirling, vibrant—full of color and music and energy and laughter and forgiveness.

The walls of my room creaked and moaned as the ceiling shuddered like it might cave in. The house inhaled, exhaled, then inhaled again as the new air breathed life and warmth and love back into its skeleton. Then, a heartbeat. Pulsing. Remembering.
Awakening
.

I collapsed onto the carpet, took a deep breath. Closed my eyes and tried to hold on to my history. Tried to take in every single tiny detail. So I’d never forget. Not for a hundred eternities. I memorized the sound of the wind chimes Dad had hung outside my windows years ago. The way the carpet felt cool and scratchy against my back. The faintest smell of apples. Mom always said my room smelled like apples.

Suddenly, I felt a shimmer of light pass over me. Opened my eyes and noticed a tiny gleam of sunshine dancing on the far wall. It was reflecting off the old gold frame, hung up just above my dresser. Behind the glass was a piece of paper, and on the paper was the poem my grandpa had written for me on my last birthday.
Fifteen
.