There Will Come a Time (26 page)

Seriously, thank you

You're welcome

It was a beautiful sunrise though

Yeah

It was, until Hanna almost died. But she didn't. She didn't die. She will live and see another sunrise. And for the first time since the accident, I don't feel guilty about hoping I'm there with her.

•  •  •  •

Later that night I can't sleep. I get up to see if there's anything to eat. Light slips underneath the door to Grace's room. I hesitate, then knock softly.

“Come in,” Dad says.

I find him sitting on the floor in his robe with a couple of Grace's notebooks spread out around him.

“Couldn't sleep?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Me neither.” He gestures to the books. “Grace was so talented. I knew she wrote, but she kept it close to her. I'm sorry if this upsets you, but after today, when I thought—when I got that call from the hospital . . . I needed to read them.”

“No, I get it.” I sit down next to him. “Can I see one?”

Dad hands me a small red journal. I open it to the first page. The date is two years ago, right at the start of the school year. I flip through the pages and laugh at her Top Five People to Avoid, but what surprises me is that River is number four. Was she trying to avoid him because he annoyed her or because she liked him? Probably the latter. Girls are always playing games like that, though it's hard for me to imagine Grace as one of those girls. She was pretty straightforward with me. But I was her brother, not a potential love interest.

Mark is such a jerk. Sometimes I hate him. But I love him too. I'll get him back when he's least expecting it.

I have no idea what she's referring to, but obviously it was something big. I don't fight the tears that come. After burying the hurt for so long, it's like a current I can't suppress anymore. I don't want to. I'm tired of running from it. “I've been so angry. I miss her so much.”

“I miss her too. She was my daughter. It's unnatural and unthinkable to have to bury your own child. But you two—you shared a closeness that I can't imagine.” His eyes fill with tears.

Sitting here, crying with my dad, feeling a little awkward, owning what I need to, I take it a step further.

“I'm sorry for not thinking about how hard it's been on everyone.”

He puts his hand on my arm. “We'll get through this. We'll find a way, together.”

He removes his hand and wipes his eyes.

“She say anything good in yours?” I point to the notebook he has open. Dad offers it to me, but I ask him to read it out loud instead.

He puts his glasses back on.

I know God has a purpose for my life. It doesn't have to involve saving the world or anything, but I want my life to matter.

That makes my heart ache a little. Grace died before she ever got to discover her purpose, though I suppose her living and us knowing her was already a big win for us. She changed all of us, and still does even now that she's gone.

Dad reads another.

There's enough suckage to go around the world like fifty million times. I'm going to start a national campaign. We need a day where people unite and not suck together. I'll call it “The day where everyone agrees not to suck.”

I laugh because hearing Dad say the word “suck” so much is really funny.

We take turns reading passages from Grace's journals. At some point, Jenny notices Dad isn't in bed and comes in. She sits on the floor next to Dad and me. She joins us reading Grace's words. There is laughter and tears. Grace's voice is loud and clear on the page and spreads across the room like a healing salve. Fern even wakes and comes in and sits on my lap. Even though there are only four of us in the room, she is here. Grace is here. We are a family again.

I
sit inside my car across the street from the house. I'm working up my courage. Grace thought I didn't ever fear anything, but that's not true. I just hide it better than most. But today isn't about Grace. Today is about me choosing life. I take a deep breath and let it out in one big whoosh before exiting the car. I check myself in the window. I've removed my beanie, and smooth my hair with my hands. I'm wearing a button-down black shirt, my nicest pair of jeans. I'm ready.

I knock on the brown door. A few moments later a woman answers.

“Hello, Mrs. McAllister? My name is Mark Santos. I was wondering if Mr. McAllister is here.”

Her eyes widen as she recognizes my name, but she says, “Yes, let me get him.”

She closes the door partly and doesn't invite me inside. Cautious. Who knows what she's thinking. Maybe I scare her. Does she think I'm here for revenge? I'd probably think the same thing.

Mr. McAllister comes to the door wearing jeans and a T-shirt. I wouldn't have known him because my memory of him is more like an outline.

“Mr. McAllister, my name is Mark Santos.”

“Yes, yes, Mark.” His voice is how I remembered. “Come in,” he says, and I follow him inside to the kitchen table.

“Can I get you anything? Some water? Orange juice?”

“Water is fine,” I say because my throat is suddenly dry.

The TV is on in the living room, playing a cartoon I like. The backs of two kids' heads remind me of how Grace and I used to do the same thing on Saturday mornings. He places two waters on the table. I reach out and take a drink, trying not to shake the glass.

“Mr. McAllister.”

“Tony, you can call me Tony.”

“Tony.” I clear my throat. “I came here—well, this isn't the first time I've come. I haven't known what to say, so I usually drive off.”

He pales a little at my admission. He's probably thinking that I'll hurt him, and honestly there's a small part of me that would like to break this table and go to town on his face. But I don't.

“After Grace's death, I wanted you to die. I wanted you to suffer. But then I came here and saw you playing out front with your kids. And . . . it didn't make sense to wish that anymore.”

I take another sip of water. His wife watches me from a spot inside the kitchen. Her hands grip the side of a counter as if she's afraid.

“What I'm trying to say is, I know it was an accident. What happened will never really make sense. I'd give anything to have Grace back, but that's not possible. I have to keep moving forward or I'm not really living, and Grace wouldn't want that for me. She wants . . . She'd want me to live. So part of my doing that is telling you . . . I forgive you.”

When I say the words, Tony stares down at the table and puts his head in his hands. He starts to cry, and not a stoic-man cry, but a big-sobs kind of cry. His wife comes and wraps her arms around him. There are tears in her eyes. The only reason I'm not crying too is because I'm pretty much cried out for a while. But I tell you, it feels good to see him cry. Not because I've hurt him. I can tell there's no torture I could inflict that he hasn't done to himself. He'll have to live with Grace's death the
rest of his life. I feel good because I know that my forgiveness is part of what he needs to heal. It also gives me hope that one day I'll be able to fully forgive myself.

He reaches across the table to shake my hand. I take it. His grip is strong and I try to match it.

“Thank you,” he says. “You didn't have to come. I can only imagine what courage it has taken you. Your forgiveness makes the load a little more bearable.”

One of the boys watching the TV says, “Daddy, what's wrong?” He comes over and looks at me. “Who are you?”

“He's a friend of your dad's,” Tony's wife says.

“But why are you crying?”

“Daddy's just happy,” Tony says.

I smile at the kid and stand to leave. My last glimpse is of the three of them sitting at the table in a group hug. I let myself out and head for my car.

My phone buzzes.

Today it's how she'd make animal shapes out of pancakes.

Lily. Her texts come at random, but I like them. They make it okay to remember.

I respond.

Today it's how we used to fight over Saturday morning cartoons.

I
avoid Hanna after she comes home from the hospital. Seeing her almost lose consciousness and leave in the back of the ambulance freaked me out. I still get choked up thinking about it. We need to talk, but I'm like a liter of soda that's been shaken a hundred times and is ready to blow. I'm just trying to get a handle on all the emotion.

I know I'm being stupid, and she'll probably be all worked up about why I haven't made any effort. We're both on winter break, so she knows I'm around. We've also got the 5K soon. I need to make the first move here. The longer we go without speaking, the more awkward it gets. I should text her, let her know I'm thinking about her.

I text Sebastian instead.

Where are you?

Los Feliz

Coming over

Right on

The smell of Korean BBQ hits me as soon as I enter the small parking lot. I never get tired of that smell. I've timed my visit with lunch, so there's a long line of people. Sebastian sees me through the truck window and motions for me to come around.

I walk to the back of the truck where Sebastian opens the door and hands me a white apron and hairnet.

“Come on. I need help. Alex is sick.”

“I'm not wearing that.” I point to the hairnet, but I grab the apron and tie it around my middle.

“Yes, you are. Just think of it as a beanie with air-conditioning,” he says.

I put on the hairnet and follow him. If you ever think the inside of one of those food trucks looks bigger than it does on the outside, you'd be wrong. It's cramped and tight, especially depending on how many people you have in there. We have three: Sebastian; his older brother, Eddie; and me. Eddie tells me to get a number two plate ready.

I look at Sebastian for help and he points to the hanging menu. “Like you don't have it memorized already.”

A number two is four short ribs, rice, kimchee
,
and a drink. I pile it on the plate the way I remember Sebastian handing it to me. Sebastian gives me the thumbs-up as he passes it to the customer through the window. Next up is a burrito. Eddie shows me how to make one with beef, kimchee, fried rice, cheese, lettuce, salsa, and hot sauce. He wraps it up in two seconds and returns to cooking. He's back and forth stirring, flipping, and mixing. He's a machine.

It only takes ten minutes for them to get me off the food line because I'm too slow, so they put me in charge of taking orders and money. This I can handle. I've been a cashier at Dad's stores, so I know how to work a register. It's even easier in the truck because they only take cash, no credit cards. Pretty soon we have a good rhythm going. Two hours pass quickly and the bulk of the lunch customers have all been served.

Sebastian and I get a small reprieve and head outside for some air. Eddie stays in the truck and takes a call on his phone.

“That was intense,” I say, and take a drink of water.

“You did good. A natural. Maybe you should think about going into food service,” Sebastian says.

I stretch my neck. “Not for me. That's harder than I thought.” And I'm not into the uniform. We're both still wearing the aprons, now stained with food, and hairnets.

“When it's busy. When we're not, it's boring and hot being in the truck all day.”

“You planning on joining the family business?”

“They'd like me to. Look.” He takes out an envelope stuffed in his back pocket. “I meant to show you earlier.”

It's an early acceptance letter from UCLA. “Dude, that's awesome.” I high-five him.

“I'll probably work with the truck, since I'm going to stay local.”

“So it's been decided?” I toss my water bottle into a nearby trash can.

“That's why I applied for early admission.” Sebastian takes out a hacky sack and tosses it to me with his feet. “What about you?”

“Berklee's due in a couple of weeks,” I say, and flip the sack into the air and catch it with my toe before sending it back to him.

“Boston. Not too far from LA.”

“No, not too far. You could drive the truck. I bet Korean BBQ would be a hit.”

“It's already there.”

I take off my apron because I'm not used to playing hacky sack with a skirt on. We keep talking while bouncing and tossing the sack around, something we've been doing since freshman year. Sebastian is better than me. I've always told him it's because he's closer to the ground.

“You going to apply?” he asks me.

“Yeah,” I say. I've started thinking about the future again, about how I don't want to waste a year trying to figure things out. I can go to school without knowing the whole plan. “I'm going to send it in after I make an audition video.”

“Nothing to worry about there. You were born to play the bass.”

“Yeah, I'm pretty good,” I say, and laugh. I can't imagine anything else I'd rather do than make music.

“How's Hanna?” Sebastian asks.

I drop the sack. “Good, I think.” I pick it back up with my foot and bounce it a few times to get the rhythm again before tossing it to Sebastian.

“I wish I'd been there to help.”

“Yeah. I could have used it. I think I pulled something carrying her.” I chuckle. It's my attempt to joke about it.

“You going to call her?” he asks.

“Maybe, why?”

“She may have asked me about you when we talked yesterday.”

“So you're the new guy best friend?”

He grunts. “She thinks you're avoiding her. Look, just call her, so I don't have to be in the middle. I don't do the whole guy-best-friend thing. She talked for thirty minutes. I can't keep that up.”