and jelly and baby wipes . . . The
thwuck
of his pacifier as I’d pull it out of his mouth so I could hear him talk . . . And that joyful little voice exclaiming, “O-mit! You home!”
Here’s the truth about healing. It’s a fucking myth — an idea they try to sell you on to keep you from killing yourself. You love someone and they leave, but they never entirely go away. You feel them there, acutely, like an amputated limb.
A BEAM OF LIGHT SHOT THROUGH THE narrow space between the blinds and the window frame, waking me from a dream about Mason. It was fading fast, but I could still hear his voice, still see his face, and I clung to the filaments of the other world until there were no strands left to cling to. It was the best thing and the worst thing, when he appeared in dreams: Being with him again was such an astonishing joy. But then, waking and remembering. No matter how much time passed, it blindsided me. Waking up from a dream and realizing he was dead never failed to feel new and terrible.
The coffee grinder whirred from the kitchen. I rolled over and looked at the clock — 7:40. As the fog lifted, I realized what day it was: June 11. The day Meg and her dad flew back to town. I was going to see Meg today — in less than twelve hours.
When I went downstairs, I found my mom pulling out her marble pastry board and wooden rolling pin. She liked the marble for pastry, but she never strayed from the ancient red-handled rolling pin that had belonged to her grandmother.
Someday this will be yours
, she would say to me,
and it will be up to you to carry on the Stratton pie-making tradition. Unless Mason turns out to be a baker!
I remembered how Mason used to throw his head back and grin, eyes closed.
“Morning,” she said, turning to me, holding the rolling pin in both hands. She lifted her eyebrows, which I knew meant,
Today’s the big day, eh?
“Want some eggs? Or French toast?”
“Nah.” I poured a little orange juice and sat at the table.
“You get any sleep?” Her voice was gentle.
I hated it that she could see inside my head. She knew me so well that I wasn’t even entitled to my own private thoughts. I nodded and sipped my juice.
She opened the pantry and pulled out flour and sugar. “You’re going to help me, right?”
“Sure.”
Dressed in sweats and T-shirts, both of us, we went barefoot into the backyard. The grass was lit with dewdrops, warming under the sun, and the damp-earth smell of spring gave rise to a surge of anything-is-possible feelings.
The rhubarb’s heart-shaped leaves fanned out over the edge of the garden bed, big as welcome mats. My mom cut several fat stalks, removed the leaves, and handed the stems off to me. Their color was like an inverted watermelon — deep pink on the outside, pale green on the inside.
“That should be enough,” she said, handing me the last stem and wiping her hands on her sweatpants. She wandered over to the lilac trees between our house and Meg’s former house and trimmed a few clusters of blooms to bring inside. “I don’t know why I bother,” she called to me, pulling off the leaves. “They don’t last.”
Back in the kitchen, we made the pie, not talking much. I got the easy jobs, like measuring sugar and spices. My mom rolled out pastry dough and cut up the rhubarb. When we got the pie assembled and into the oven, my mom turned to me. “You swimming today?”
I offered my ubiquitous shrug. “I’m supposed to.” I wasn’t actually feeling so good. Every time I thought of seeing Meg, my stomach seized up.
“Skip it,” she suggested, turning and wiping flour off the counter with a sponge.
Right. It’s that easy.
Practice wasn’t optional, and even if Coach would forgive my missing one, Dara would castrate me. Between worries about her and worries about Meg, I felt queasy. I sat down and lowered my head onto my arms.
My mom sat down across from me. “This is a big day for both of us.”
“I guess,” I said into
thwuck
of his pacifier as I’d pull it out of his mouth so I could hear him talk . . . And that joyful little voice exclaiming, “O-mit! You home!”
Here’s the truth about healing. It’s a fucking myth — an idea they try to sell you on to keep you from killing yourself. You love someone and they leave, but they never entirely go away. You feel them there, acutely, like an amputated limb.
A BEAM OF LIGHT SHOT THROUGH THE narrow space between the blinds and the window frame, waking me from a dream about Mason. It was fading fast, but I could still hear his voice, still see his face, and I clung to the filaments of the other world until there were no strands left to cling to. It was the best thing and the worst thing, when he appeared in dreams: Being with him again was such an astonishing joy. But then, waking and remembering. No matter how much time passed, it blindsided me. Waking up from a dream and realizing he was dead never failed to feel new and terrible.
The coffee grinder whirred from the kitchen. I rolled over and looked at the clock — 7:40. As the fog lifted, I realized what day it was: June 11. The day Meg and her dad flew back to town. I was going to see Meg today — in less than twelve hours.
When I went downstairs, I found my mom pulling out her marble pastry board and wooden rolling pin. She liked the marble for pastry, but she never strayed from the ancient red-handled rolling pin that had belonged to her grandmother.
Someday this will be yours
, she would say to me,
and it will be up to you to carry on the Stratton pie-making tradition. Unless Mason turns out to be a baker!
I remembered how Mason used to throw his head back and grin, eyes closed.
“Morning,” she said, turning to me, holding the rolling pin in both hands. She lifted her eyebrows, which I knew meant,
Today’s the big day, eh?
“Want some eggs? Or French toast?”
“Nah.” I poured a little orange juice and sat at the table.
“You get any sleep?” Her voice was gentle.
I hated it that she could see inside my head. She knew me so well that I wasn’t even entitled to my own private thoughts. I nodded and sipped my juice.
She opened the pantry and pulled out flour and sugar. “You’re going to help me, right?”
“Sure.”
Dressed in sweats and T-shirts, both of us, we went barefoot into the backyard. The grass was lit with dewdrops, warming under the sun, and the damp-earth smell of spring gave rise to a surge of anything-is-possible feelings.
The rhubarb’s heart-shaped leaves fanned out over the edge of the garden bed, big as welcome mats. My mom cut several fat stalks, removed the leaves, and handed the stems off to me. Their color was like an inverted watermelon — deep pink on the outside, pale green on the inside.
“That should be enough,” she said, handing me the last stem and wiping her hands on her sweatpants. She wandered over to the lilac trees between our house and Meg’s former house and trimmed a few clusters of blooms to bring inside. “I don’t know why I bother,” she called to me, pulling off the leaves. “They don’t last.”
Back in the kitchen, we made the pie, not talking much. I got the easy jobs, like measuring sugar and spices. My mom rolled out pastry dough and cut up the rhubarb. When we got the pie assembled and into the oven, my mom turned to me. “You swimming today?”
I offered my ubiquitous shrug. “I’m supposed to.” I wasn’t actually feeling so good. Every time I thought of seeing Meg, my stomach seized up.
“Skip it,” she suggested, turning and wiping flour off the counter with a sponge.
Right. It’s that easy.
Practice wasn’t optional, and even if Coach would forgive my missing one, Dara would castrate me. Between worries about her and worries about Meg, I felt queasy. I sat down and lowered my head onto my arms.
My mom sat down across from me. “This is a big day for both of us.”
“I guess,” I said into
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