by Carol Snow
But my camera had seen something else. Just under the surface of the water, a person floated, arms and legs spread out like a starfish, wide eyes staring up at the sky.
It wasn't Duncan. It wasn't Larry. And it wasn't Ray Clarke.
It was me.
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22.
I didn't cry . I didn't scream . It's almost like I was expecting to see myself in the camera. So this is where the story ends.
I turned it off and laid it in my lap. It burned my bare legs, but I didn't move it.
My mother slid open the glass door. "It's late. You should come in."
I didn't answer. There was so much I wanted to say to her, but none of them would make things right. "Did you hear me?"
"Soon."
I should tell her I love her. She slid the door closed. This is where it ends.
Sleep eluded me. I lay on my back on the scratchy couch, tears sliding silently into my ears. I cried for myself: the things I'd never do, the people I'd never meet. I cried for sweet, lost Duncan. I cried for the foolish girl I used to be. I cried for my parents and
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the pain this would cause them. I cried for Lexie, who I'd never see again.
How would it happen? The possibilities jostled my brain: a rogue car jumping the curb. A piece of hot dog caught in my windpipe. A carbon monoxide leak, a stray bullet, a meteorite. There were so many ways to die. Maybe I'd just drown, like Duncan probably did. They say it doesn't hurt. Maybe I'd go into a coma like Ronald Young. Had he regained consciousness yet? Somehow I knew that he hadn't.
Sometime after four a.m. I gave up on sleep. I got off the couch and tiptoed through the room, pausing to study my sleeping parents. Were they dreaming of our old house? Or of carnations and ditches?
My mom's cell phone in hand, I slid open the glass door and went out to the patio. For a moment, my heart raced as I imagined a knife-wielding psychopath popping out of the darkness. But then I thought, No. I will not let fear rule the rest of my day. The rest of my life. Were they the same thing?
I wouldn't normally call Lexie--or anyone--in the middle of the night, but this wasn't a typical day. I had to make things right before time ran out.
The phone rang four times before going to voice mail. I hung up and hit the number again. And again. After five tries, she finally picked up.
"Madison?" she croaked.
"Hey." I hadn't actually figured out what I was going to say. Suddenly, she sounded very awake. "I called you earlier--did your mom tell you?"
"Yeah."
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Her words tumbled out. "I needed to tell you that I feel, like, so unbelievably bad about what happened--you know, with Rolf and everything. He's an awesome guy and I really like him, but your friendship means more than anything. If the only way we can stay friends is if I break up with him, I'll do it--I swear. I told him that tonight and he was bummed, but it doesn't matter. You're my best friend, and I need to know that you don't hate me." Her voice cracked.
On the other side of the hill, a truck rumbled by. A few doors down, a baby began to wail.
I said, "Of course I don't hate you. We'll be best friends...for the rest of our lives. And Rolf..." I tried to remember why I ever thought he mattered. "I don't care if you go out with him. I mean, I think he's kind of a jerk, so be careful. But if you want to give it a shot, go ahead."
"Celia's being a total cow," Lexie said. "Telling everyone that I stole him from her, which is so not true. She even called Melissa to say that..."
My attention wavered. I thought of Delilah and her crazy clothes and her funky art. I thought of Leo's disco ball. "... and so I can, like, talk to my mom," Lexie said. "Huh?"
"I don't think she'd let you move in with us forever, but maybe for a few months. Do you think that would give your parents enough time to figure things out?"
"You want me to move in with you?" I said, surprised.
"No guarantees, but I can ask."
"Thanks," I said. "But--I'm happy here. I have friends, and I have..." Should I say it? Oh, why not. I'd he with him soon
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enough. "I have a boyfriend."
"Ohmigod! You gotta tell me!"
"Later, maybe," I said. "The sun will be up soon. I think I'll hit the beach."
When my parents woke up, they'd find a note on the little kitchen table.
Mom & Dad--
Off to take some pics at the beach. It's going to be a beautiful day.
Madison
P.S. I love you both.
With luck, I'd come back from the beach unharmed. But I was going to catch a final sunrise, even if it killed me.
The alley behind Psychic Photo was shadowy. Something skittered and I jumped, but it was just some animal (a cat, I told myself, even as I suspected that the "c" should be an "r"). I placed four plastic grocery bags next to the purple back door, trying to keep the rustling to a minimum. There was no need to wake Delilah. There were no wrongs to right between us, nothing to explain. In some ways, she understood me better than anyone.
The bags were stuffed with my old clothes. They were kind of worn, but they were all good brands. I'd even put my new swimsuit and my Seven jeans in there. They wouldn't do me any good where I was going. I hoped Delilah would keep some of the clothes for herself instead of selling everything on eBay. But the
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decision was hers to make, as she'd understand from the short note I'd stuffed into one of the bags.
Deliah--
All yours.
Madison
As for me, I was wearing my old black shorts and the pink-and-black T-shirt. My mother had finally washed them.
I checked the parking spot in front of the shop: no motorcycle. I hiked over to Kimberley Cove and checked the mooring: no boat.
By the time I got to the beach, the sky had lightened, but the water was still calm and silvery, the shadows long, the post-storm clouds a watercolor pink. The clouds were drifting away already, leaving a clean, sharp, blue sky. For once, there was no fog.
It seemed pointless, in a way, to take pictures. My camera couldn't stop time or save me. A photograph isn't real life. It's just what we think we see.
But right now, instead of coming between me and the world, the camera brought us closer. It allowed me to really see the beauty around me--not just in the shapes and the shadows, but in the things that were actually there: the sand and the seaweed, the water and the rocks. There were birds and seals and the occasional human being.
There was beauty in other things: a torn volleyball net, spider-web cracks on the sidewalk, Delilah's favorite trash cans. You just needed to look harder to recognize the wonder of the shadows, the miracle of the shapes.
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It made me feel better to know that the world would go on without me, even as I ached to realize how much I was losing. A breeze kissed my cheek, and I thought: Duncan. His spirit was all around me, in the cool morning air, in the coarse sand, in the sound of the waves.
Was Duncan looking down on me now? My family had never been big on religion, but I suddenly felt sure that death wasn't the end. There had to be something more, something that comes after. There had to be a piece of Duncan and a part of me that would live forever.
When the first beachgoers showed up, lugging coolers and beach bags, chairs and umbrellas, I pushed myself off the sand. At the water's edge I let the cold froth lick my toes. Something glinted in a wave. I reached down and pulled out a sand dollar. Duncan said they brought good luck. I tossed the shell back into the waves for someone else to find.
As I walked away, I once again felt that peculiar sensation, as if I were seeing the world with someone else's eyes. In the parking lot, deliciously greasy smells were already pouring out of the white-and-blue snack shack. If I lived until lunch, I'd come back for a cheeseburger. I passed the ice cream store where Ron Young had bought his last sorbet and a burrito shop that Delilah said was the best. Soon I reached the surf shop. Had that green-an
d-white bathing suit really mattered in the end? Had it really made me any happier?
Well, yeah. That suit was awesome. In fact, the very thought of the green diagonal stripe on the board shorts made me smile through my pain.
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I made it back to the motel without any problem. My father was finishing his cereal, and my mother was tucking her green polo work shirt into her black pants.
Tears blurred my vision. "I love you guys!"
They stared at me for a moment like I was a total nut job.
"We love you, too, honey," my dad said, blinking away tears of his own.
"Is everything okay?" my mother asked.
"Yeah. It's fine. I just-- Yeah."
"We have wonderful news," my mother said. Her eyes were shining, happy. I tried to remember the last time she'd looked like this.
"You know that funeral I did recently?" she said. "Francine Lunardi?"
My stomach clenched. "Kinda."
"I just got off the phone with her daughter. Mrs. Lunardi owned a little cottage: two bedrooms, one and a half baths. Not big, but just two blocks from the beach. She left it to her daughter, but the daughter wants to wait until the market picks back up before she sells it. Besides, the cottage needs a lot of work."
I nodded, trying to follow. "And she wants Dad to be the contractor?" I wanted to know that they'd be okay.
My mother shook her head. "Even better, She's going to let us live there--free! For two years, at the very least. In return Daddy will renovate it, but she'll pay for all the materials. We're on our way to see it now--will you come?"
I was so tired, it felt like someone had tied a big band around my forehead. But I liked the idea of knowing where my parents were in case I got the chance to look down on them.
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Mrs. Lunardi's yellow cottage looked like something out of a storybook (a happy storybook--nothing with witches or trolls). It had a white picket fence and an overgrown rose garden. A blue front door opened into a boxy living room with a brick fireplace and wide-plank, scratched wood floors. There was a kitchen with black and white checkerboard tiles, a bathroom with a claw-foot bathtub, and two tiny bedrooms under a sloping roof.
"First thing I'd do is bump out the back of the house and add a master suite," my dad told Joanne Torres, Francine Lunardi's daughter. "Then right away you're up to a three-bed, two-bath house--much better for resale."
We all sat at the kitchen table so my parents and Mrs. Torres could sign papers. Mrs. Torres was older than I expected, with gray roots in her one-tone brown hair, and sad lines around her mouth.
"The house is darling," my mother said, visions of flowered curtains and shabby-chic furniture probably swimming in her head. "I can see why you might want to move back here sometime."
Mrs. Torres shook her head. "It's not that. It's just--this house meant so much to my mother, I'm not ready to let it go."
She chewed on her lip before continuing. "My mother and I didn't talk for over twenty-five years. It was my fault. I was...a bad kid. Alcohol and drugs, and...I stole things. But my mother kept forgiving me, over and over, until..." Her voice drifted off.
"You must miss her," my mother said.
Mrs. Torres nodded, eyes tearing. "I stole her engagement ring," she blurted. "When I was nineteen. My dad had just died. I pawned the ring and we couldn't get it back."
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My father looked at his watch. My mother covered her ring.
Mrs. Torres cleared her throat. "I grew up, cleaned up my act, but my mother just couldn't get past it. And then, a couple of weeks ago, it was like someone had flipped a switch. She called to say she forgave me--and she hoped I could forgive her. I flew out here right away, and we had the most amazing couple of days. It was like we were starting over."
My mother didn't know what to say. My father, who hates this kind of touchy-feely stuff, said, "I promise you I'll do a nice job on the house." And "I should really be getting back to the job site."
I sat rooted to the heavy wood chair, wishing Mrs. Torres would explain why a person had to face death in order to have the kind of wisdom that had come at last to Francine Lunardi--and now to me.
We dropped my father off at the construction site. "Okay if I borrow your camera again, Maddy?" he asked, getting out of the car.
I hesitated. What would he think if he saw the picture of me floating in the water? But then I decided it was okay. Maybe he could make sense of it someday.
"Let me check one thing." My black hair hung over the screen like a privacy curtain as I looked at the dark water picture. I was still there, floating like a starfish just under the surface, my eyes round as sand dollars.
I turned off the camera and handed it to my dad. "Keep it as long as you like."
My mother left me at the motel and then went off to do some errands. I longed to sink onto the big brown bed, but I couldn't be
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sure I'd wake up. It would be four days before my parents could move into the yellow cottage. Risking death in their bed just seemed inconsiderate.
As I settled myself onto the couch, I wished I'd worn nicer clothes. If it was my time to leave this earth, I wish I could do it in something other than my Goth Girl getup. But as I drifted off to sleep, I realized that it didn't really matter.
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23.
HIS breath, cold and minty , woke me up. "Charles," he whispered.
I opened my eyes and saw Duncan's face, the light behind him so bright I had to squint. I felt safe, not afraid at all. From now on, everything would be okay.
He smiled, revealing the chip in his tooth. At least that was the same. Otherwise he looked different: his hair was short and his earrings were gone. Was there a dress code in the afterlife?
He leaned forward and put his mouth on mine, his lips cool and gentle. He tasted like peppermint and sweet tea. It was nothing like kissing Rolf. Nothing like anything I'd ever felt before.
So this is why they call it heaven.
He leaned back and smiled, his lips redder now.
"Are we dead?" I whispered.
His mouth dropped open. And then he started laughing, and I sat up on the couch and looked around. Heaven looked just like our room at Home Suite Home in the late afternoon, with a slice
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of sunlight sneaking through the front window. You'd think God would spring for better carpet.
"You're alive?" I said. "You're not even hurt?"
He spread his arms. "Sure looks that way."
"But--what? How?" I shook my head. "You were in my camera."
"Delilah told me." He sat next to me on the couch and put an arm around my shoulders. "I'm kinda glad I didn't see the picture. It would've freaked me out. Though Ronald Young came out of his coma last night--I heard some people at the pier talking about it."
"He did? Really? But...did you almost die?" I asked. "Was the storm bad? Did you fall off the boat or anything?"
He shook his head. "It was no big deal. We just got some rain and wind. And anyway, we were on land the whole time."
I blinked with confusion. He tucked a piece of black hair behind my ear.
"There's this little island," he explained. "South of here and about twenty miles out. It's a nature preserve--you're not even supposed to even go onshore unless you have a special permit. Which we didn't. It's a great place to camp: totally deserted and there's tons of fish. We anchored the boat in this little hidden cove and turned off the radio."
"Why?" I remembered Rose's frantic pleas, the harbormaster's attempts at radio contact.
"So no one would know where we were. Then this morning we were hauling in the fish like you wouldn't believe, and a frickin' helicopter flies over!" He began to laugh. "I thought Ray Clarke--you know, the guy who owns the boat--was gonna pee
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in his pants. Now he's gotta pay all these fines because he didn't have a permit. He's way pissed at Rose."
"What happened to your hair?" I was still no
t entirely convinced he was alive.
He rolled his green eyes up as if he could see the top of his head. "I did it for you. Well, for your parents, anyway." His eyes shot to the sliding glass door. My father sat out there, facing the hill. He must have let Duncan in.
"But I liked your hair," I said, missing the wild tangles, the touches of blond.
"You did?" He looked surprised. "I can always grow it back. It's just hair."
"What about your earrings?"
"They're in my pocket."
"Good." I had one more question. "Who's Charles?"
"I am," he said simply.
I shook my head. "But there's nothing wrong with that name. Why don't you want anyone to know it?"
He took a deep breath. "Can't we just go back to kissing?"
"Soon. But first I want to hear about Charles."
Duncan's mother named him Charles after her own father, who let her move in with him when she got pregnant.
"I think it was just easier than coming up with a new name," Duncan said. "She'd gone out with my dad for a couple of months, but they'd already split up. He didn't even know about me."
She wasn't the worst mother in the world. She didn't beat him or burn him with cigarettes. She just, like, forgot she had a child. Some days she wouldn't feed him. Or change him. When
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she went out at night, she'd leave him all alone. Social workers asked questions, but there was no place else for him to go.
When Duncan was three, his grandfather died. "I le was a total drunk. So was my mother, I think. I've got this fuzzy memory of broken bottles and a really bad smell. I'll never touch the stuff. Genetics, you know?"
"Is that when she joined the cult?" I asked. "After your grandfather died?"
Duncan covered his face. "There was no cult," he admitted, finally. "Nobody made her do anything. When I was three years old, she tracked down my father. He was living in a rented house in this crap neighborhood. She told me to go play in the backyard. When I came back inside she was gone."
I stared at him. "She just left you?"