Then there it is. His tombstone.
ZACHEUS LEE CASTLE
GONE TOO SOON
DEAREST SON AND BROTHER
I lie on the ground, right where I think his casket might be. I wish I could put my arms into the earth, put my arms around Zach, just one last time. The grass isn’t soft, but tough, strong, Florida grass.
“Dear Jesus, dear Jesus.” This is a sincere prayer. “Please let my brother hear me.”
I tell Zach everything. It’s a repeat, these words, a cry of loneliness.
How I miss him.
How I’m starting to feel alive again, but only a little bit alive. Sort of zombie-ish.
How I’m scared to death (no pun intended) to do this alone.
Without him.
This wasn’t part of my plan.
Part of his? Maybe.
But not mine.
“Why did you have to go so early, Zach?”
I wait for an answer. Sometimes—and this is the God’s honest truth—sometimes I know he’s near. If only for a moment. But not this time.
A bit of breeze moves past, and even though my eyes are closed, I imagine that the grass is bowing before that wind.
Maybe bowing to Zach.
My brother.
Once, when I was little, really little, something awful happened.
We were in South America, the whole family. And Zach and I, we couldn’t have been more than four and five. We lived in this village, helping to dig wells, when this sickness went through and everyone died. Like, I mean, everyone.
I still remember.
I remember Daddy came into the place we were staying and said, “We’ve got to go. Now.”
We left.
Everyone else stayed.
And died.
Including a little girl and her twin sister that I was friends with. Those two had thick, thick brown hair. Always braided. And tiny white Chiclet teeth. I remember.
Afterward I heard Daddy talking to Mom.
Heard Daddy telling some officials.
And Zachy got sick.
Oh, how Mom worried over him.
We left and got shots and took antibiotics and Zach got better, but no one else lived, including those two little girls I played with every day, those little girls with the brown hair and Chiclet teeth.
That night, after all that dying, after hearing what had happened,
I lay in a real bed with a light sheet and a real pillow.
Facedown.
Crying.
And this is true.
Swear.
Jesus touched me.
I felt His hand rest right on my back,
between my shoulder blades, and I felt so much better
because I knew those little girls were with Him.
I just knew it.
With a touch.
I only told Zach about that.
And he believed me.
Believed in me.
Like always.
We were like those twins, Zach and me. As close.
He was my hero, my best friend. Always believing, always talking, always there.
Zacheus.
Unlike my mother now.
Unlike my father.
My Zach always believed in me.
Here’s the thing about Jesus’s broken heart.
How much did it hurt?
Sometimes
Sometimes, I’m sure I know.
Somehow, I can’t believe it, I fall asleep on Zach’s grave.
And I dream.
In this dream Mom’s there. And it’s my old mom. She’s smiling, so that’s how I know it’s the old her. “I love you, London,” she says. I hear her voice. See her reach to pet me. Her hand never connects to my face, though I wait for her touch. Stand there. Wait.
I wake up, roll onto my back, still waiting for that touch from my mom. The marshmallow clouds have gone dark.
Stormy.
It can’t be that late, can it? Where’s the sun?
I’m hungry.
“And lucky,” I say to Zach, “that fire ants didn’t find me here and eat me up.”
“You okay?”
I scream, sit, go dizzy.
It’s the groundskeeper. An older guy, dark hair going gray.
“Sorry,” he says. He keeps his distance. “I knew you were alive. Saw that you were breathing. You see everything out here. You okay?”
I nod. “I think so.” I clear my throat. “I’ll go.”
“Stay as long as you like,” he says. “You’re safe here.”
He gets into an old blue truck that probably used to be the color of the sky.
Drives off with a tilt of his head to me.
He might be an angel. I don’t know. He might.
I have a few dollars in my pocket, but I quit my cell phone a long time ago. Just let it die in my bedside table drawer. I couldn’t face all the text messages, the calls, the are-you-okays?
(No! No, I wasn’t okay! Got it? I WAS NOT OKAY.)
My angel’s “You okay?” is different.
I close my eyes.
Am I getting a little better? Healing a little? Aching less?
I stand, look back at the grass to see if there is a print of my body `(there is), and walk on out of the cemetery, checking all the while for the groundskeeper, who I don’t see again.
So, not too far away is a 7-Eleven.
In the bathroom I see I have grass-mark dents all over one side of my face. My mascara’s smeared. Did I cry in my sleep? I have cried while sleeping plenty of times.
Awakened with tears streaming down my face.
I use a paper towel and brush at my teeth. I would try the soap but decide against it because it’s bar soap and someone has left black scum on what used to be a white bar.
“Don’t be ridikerus.” I can almost hear Zach say the words. He always said that. “Don’t be ridikerus. You don’t brush your teeth with soap, no matter how your mouth tastes, London.”
Does he say ridikerus still?
Does Zach say it to God? To Jesus? To someone else but not me anymore?
I leave the bathroom, which I can all the sudden really smell, and walk into the store. There are a few customers, including a grandma-type lady who shepherds around two little kids, a boy and a girl, who ask in tiny voices for this treat or that.
I’ve not eaten all day and I realize I’m hungry. Outside, the sky turns darker and the wind picks up. The clouds race away from the beach. A bit of salt smell from the ocean tries to sweep away the odor of strong coffee and hot dogs when someone opens the door, but the food smells win out.
So I buy an all-beef Big Bite Hot Dog. Just looking at the crinkly thing on the rolling grill makes my mouth water, and after I pop the wiener into a bun, I load on the ketchup, mayonnaise, and relish. I get a fountain Coke, too, adding lots and lots of vanilla, making sure I save some change, because I don’t want to walk all the way home. Gonna have to call someone for a ride. I’ve walked so far I feel like I need a hip replacement.
When I step outside, a gust of wind blows garbage across the parking lot. I am so hungry, I’m shaking. But I take small bites of the Big Bite. Enjoy every bit. Sit there on the corner of the sidewalk and eat the best hot dog I have ever tasted. Sip at the vanilla-y Coke. Then, when I’m licking my fingers, I breathe deep through my nose, closing my eyes, wonder who to call.
Daddy?
Mom?
Zach? (Ha! Another joke. One that makes my stomach clench. Makes the all-beef Big Bite Hot Dog lurch.)
I think about Lili and Jesse.
And then there’s Lauren.
But I can only seem to remember Taylor’s number. So that’s who I call.
“Come get me?” I say. I stand at the phone booth missing its phone book.
“Yes,” Taylor says, even though I can hear he’s doing something else, can hear a bunch of people talking.
Someone laughs.
“You can wait, if you want.” A horn behind me blare
s, kids (no, they’re older than I am, a car full of guys) pretending that I’m in their way. Or something. “If you want, you can come later. After your thing.”
“I don’t want to come later. You home?”
I tell him where I am. Pretend to not see the guys (four of them).
“Okay.” He doesn’t say good-bye.
I hang up the phone. Turn.
“You need a ride?” one guy says.
I shake my head.
“Sure?”
“Sure.”
The wind blows drops of rain onto the sidewalk, and everything, just like that, smells dirty and hot, though the wind is cold and I wish for a jacket.
Then the rain seems to disappear, and even though the storm is heavy in the air around me, I sit still, crossing my arms. I can wait.
I will wait.
And if it starts to rain, why, I’ll hop back inside and see who’s gracing the cover of the Enquirer.
I wait awhile before I start walking home.
Against the traffic so I can see Taylor’s Toyota.
The weather’s holding, so why not? And, anyway, it seems to be taking Taylor a long time to get here. Was he at a party? With another girl?
Maybe I should have called Jesse.
I should have.
But I don’t know his number. Can’t remember Lili’s. Or my mother? What about my mother?
That thought sits in my stomach with the all-beef Big Bite Hot Dog like a joke. It’s cold, the idea of my mom not wanting me anymore.
Did she ever?
I walk, head down, the unhappy breeze pushing me along.
The rain is hesitant now. There were those few drops at the 7-Eleven, a few every once in a while, and then there’s that car of guys. They drive past, circle around, pull in front of me. Did they wait for me?
There’s no sidewalk, and I feel my heart start to pick up.
It’s not dark. The sun still has a way to go to dusk even.
Still, everything is so gray out here. Maybe my eyes are failing. I think grief makes your eyes stop working as well. For sure, colors aren’t as bright and the sun isn’t as warm and . . .
“We’ll take you home,” one guy says. He has a nice smile. He sticks his arm out the window, reaching for me,
as I hurry past the Cadillac-size car.
Without meaning to, I hunch over a little farther, then stop and straighten, because doesn’t hunching mean I’m scared?
And I’m not scared. Not really. He has a nice smile.
“Help me, Jesus,” I say.
The sky opens up then.
I’m past the car full of guys.
Hurrying.
The rain comes down fast. Hard. So hard it hurts, stings.
“Well, thanks for that.”
“Come on!” More than one of them call.
“Someone’s coming for me,” I say.
I feel like I’m in a bad commercial. The rain commercial, and when I get home someone will hand me some hot tea and my hair will spring into perfect curls.
“You’re getting wet,” Nice Smile says.
“Sure am.”
They don’t get out of the car. The rain has saved me. The talker just hangs his tanned arm from the window. They back up like I pull them along on a rope. Rain water starts to puddle. That’s a Florida storm for you.
Taylor drives up then. How did he see me in the rain?
His car lights are on.
All the cars’ lights are on.
When did it get so dark?
How did I not notice?
Taylor gets out of the Toyota, walks like he’s going somewhere important, taking big steps, right up to me.
Then he pulls me in to his body, and I feel the dryness of his clothes.
He just holds me. Tight.
I work my hands out of my pockets and to his waist.
Grip the material of his shirt.
“You’re getting me wet,” he says into my hair.
His voice is so different from Nice Smile’s.
“I’m sorry.” I say this into his shoulder.
There’s rain in my eyelashes. I think it’s rain.
He pulls in a breath. “You remind me so much of your crazy brother.”
The car of guys must leave, but I don’t hear them. I just stand in the rain with Taylor not that far from where my dead brother is buried and remember how Zach loved the rain.
After Rachel moved,
after Zachy died,
I tried to get ahold of Rachel maybe a thousand times.
But she never called back.
She loves the rain too.
Once, the four of us picnicked on the beach.
We watched as the sky grew dark out over the ocean, watched as the storm drew closer, then closer, watched as the rain pelted the sand almost like bullets.
I sat there on a blanket, arms around my knees, Taylor so close I was warm down one side. He rested his head on my shoulder, and every once in a while he kissed my face and muttered sweet words. After a bit—we were already wet—he held a second blanket over us, to shield us from the stinging rain.
Closer to the surf
Rachel and Zach ran at the waves
and away,
laughing like maniacs.
Taylor said, right after I thought it, he said,
“They’re crazy together, London. Did you ever think he’d find someone as crazy as he is?”
“I never did,” I said.
Taylor looked at me then. He pressed his lips to my forehead. “I love you, London Castle,” he said. His breath was warm, and I felt crazy happy myself.
In fact, I felt
right then
that everything in our world would have a happy ending.
“What are you doing out here?” Taylor asks. We’re in the car, and I’m dripping all over everything. My hair has turned to ringlets.
I look at him side-eyed. “You know.”
“Yes, but why alone?”
When I open my mouth, the words are trapped, and I have to cough to dislodge them. “There’s . . .” Can I tell him? Can I say, The whole family is gone? We’ve disappeared with Zach? Been buried with my brother?
I shake my head.
Without warning, Taylor pulls the car over to the side of the road. There’s a ditch next to us, filled with fast-running water.
“Look at me, London.” His voice is stern but not angry.
Was I staring at my hands? I think so. I turn my gaze to Taylor.
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