Of course. Serena got out of the hospital and came right here for the meeting. How convenient. Suddenly, all the good feelings I have for the group, for Serena, for everyone, even myself, drain right out and I’m left with a lonely, empty hole in my chest.
It must be all over my face because Mom looks at me sympathetically like I’m going to cry, which I guess, I am. And Serena just looks, I don’t know, sad or something. As the group comes near, I move out of the way of the door and put on my fake smile for them because they deserve only my gratitude at this point.
“Hey guys,” I say. “Yes, I slept great, thank you so much.” And “you’re the best, everything is perfect.” I let the words come out of my upturned mouth as I back away, needing to get away from all this, seeing Serena embraced as one of them. I know it’s irrational at this point —I know this. But I can’t help it. By the time I get to the front door, I feel sweat trickling down my back. I slide open the door, welcoming the cool air, and I walk as quickly as I can to our beach stairs, even though the fast pace exacerbates my headache. The tide is coming in but there’s enough of a strip of beach to walk on, and if it comes up any higher, I can always just hide out on the stairs.
I’m halfway down when I hear Serena.
“Rachel!” The wind is blowing off the water, so the sound gets muffled.
I stand still as she makes her way slowly down the stairs. She walks as if her body is made of glass. Carefully, slowly. Fearfully. I suddenly feel awful for running away, for not asking her how she is, on top of everything being my fault in the first place.
When she’s a few steps above me, she sits down, so I sit, too.
“Can we talk?” she asks.
I nod. “I texted you,” I say.
“My phone got zapped. My mom’s out getting me a new one.”
“Oh. Well, are you okay? The doctors said you’re okay? I mean, do you feel okay?”
She nods and I look down at my hands.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s my fault you got struck, and I’m so, so sorry.”
Serena looks up at the sky.
“My mom will help you,” I say. “The group, everyone. They’re really great. You should go back to the house. They’re probably starting soon.”
Serena shakes her head and looks at me like I’m nuts.
“I’m not going to their meeting,” she says.
“Why not?” Did Mom say something to her? Was she not letting her in? I start to push myself up with my hands. I have to talk to Mom.
“I don’t want to,” Serena says. “I don’t want to be in the group. I’m fine. And even if I end up not being fine, I don’t want to be in the group.”
I must look as confused as I feel.
“Look,” she says. “I know how you feel about your mom and that group. And I know that if I joined that group, you would never want to be friends with me again.”
What she says is probably true, but she wants to be friends with me again?
“Maybe it’s too late,” she says. “I don’t know.”
I clear my throat, not sure if my voice will work.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “You want nothing to do with me.”
“I’ll just lay this all out on the table and you can do with it whatever you want. Okay? I know I owe you an explanation for everything from the past couple of weeks.”
“Seventeen days, but who’s counting,” I say, trying to smile. She sighs and leans her head back, avoiding my eyes.
“I just couldn’t stand you anymore,” she says.
Like a knife to my gut.
“That didn’t come out right. I’m so bad at this serious stuff.”
She always has been. She turns any serious conversation into a joke as soon as humanly possible.
“What I mean is, I couldn’t stand the soul mate stuff anymore. Before Reed, you were obsessed with it but it was like, this thing we could kind of joke about and egg each other on with guys and stuff. But then with Reed, you got all intense and he wasn’t even that nice to you. And you weren’t seeing that because you were so convinced that he was your soul mate, and especially since he’d been struck, he like, gave you an in with all that stuff, too.”
My mouth opens to defend myself somehow, but she puts her hand up to stop me.
“Let me just finish,” she says. “So, after you fell and he left town, I felt so bad for you because it was just so awful, but on the other hand, and maybe this is horrible, but I was relieved that he was gone. And I felt like I stuck with you afterward, tried to help you, make you feel better, but it was like, I couldn’t do anything for you. And then when we went to that party and you were with Sawyer, you smiled for the first time since Reed left. And when I kept thinking about that, I got so pissed off that after all that time I stuck by you and the second some cute guy flirts with you, you were all happy and it was like you didn’t need me at all.”
I close my eyes, imagining how she felt that night. She’s right, too. The night I hung out with Sawyer was the first time I’d felt any better at all since Reed had left. Realizing that makes me feel so weak, and I hate myself for it.
“The more I thought about it,” she continues, “the more hurt I was. I mean, I was your best friend. I loved you and I was right there. But you were totally fine walking away from me to see if some random guy might be ‘the one.’ What is that even? Why does a soul mate have to be that? Why can’t it be a best friend? I don’t know. I just kept going around and around with that in my head. I was like, I am her fucking soul mate. Me. I am her best friend. Her connection with me is deeper than anyone’s. Definitely deeper than with that jerk Reed. And Sawyer’s nice, but there’s absolutely no way she’s got any real connection with him.”
She continues, “I’m not making sense. I’m exhausted. I guess the thing I wanted to say was that I didn’t ditch you to be with Lindsay and those girls, and I didn’t judge you for hooking up with Sawyer—everyone knew that they were broken up, including her, and you did nothing wrong. I just couldn’t stand that you’d chosen Sawyer over me.”
“But,” I say. “I didn’t. I—”
“You did,” she says. “Maybe not consciously, but when you came back from wherever you’d gone with him and you were smiling, I knew you had. Or maybe not Sawyer, but guys. Just, guys in general. Having a guy—a potential soul mate—was more important to you than having me, your best friend, who was already your soul mate, in a way.”
I swipe at my tears.
“You’re right,” I say. “You’re my best friend. We are soul mates.”
“And Jay?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I was like that with Reed, and I didn’t think I was with Sawyer, but maybe I was. But with Jay, it’s different—”
Her face changes then, like she’s disappointed.
“No, I mean, not different like ‘oh, he’s the one.’ I mean, you know. It’s Jay. Like, we have no idea what we’re doing. And we talk about it. Which makes this whole thing super awkward but also not. We’re not really figuring out what we are yet, just kind of exploring.”
Serena smiles a little.
“Exploring, huh? So, how deep has that exploration gone?”
I smack her knee lightly and blush.
“I will be getting that out of you, so don’t even try.”
We both laugh and it’s like there’d been a craggy mountain between us and the laughter blew it up with TNT and now there’s just some rubble and debris left—a few bigger rocks scattered around, too, but nothing we can’t break up with a pickaxe over time.
“Hey,” I say. “I’m sorry about everything. I’m sorry I was such an asshole. And I’m sorry it’s my fault you got struck by lightning.”
“It’ll be okay. At least if I have to have some sort of label, now I’m ‘the girl who got struck by lightning’ and not just ‘the black girl.’”
“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t think that was—I forget sometimes.”
She stares me down.
“You forget that I’m black?”
I feel my face flush with heat.
“Kind of,” I say. I can feel that what I’m saying is all wrong and insensitive but I try to explain anyway. “I mean, you’re so gorgeous and everyone’s all over you, and—I didn’t think it really mattered that much.”
“It matters,” she says. “People don’t forget I’m black because I wear short skirts and hang out with pretty white girls. There’s no such thing as colorblind. Every single time you look at me, I’m black. That never changes. It’s not something you can forget.”
“I know,” I say.
“I love who I am,” she says, her voice softer now. “But it matters.”
“I love who you are, too. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry about everything. I love you and I just missed you so much.”
I’m practically sobbing now, and I reach for her hand. She lets me take it, threads my fingers through hers.
“I should’ve just talked to you about it,” she says. “I’m sorry I checked out.”
“I get it,” I say. “I’m a lot of work. But I think I’m getting better.”
I pull our clasped hands to my face, wiping my tears with the back of my hand, and I look at the water.
“So,” I say. “What have I missed over the last seventeen days?”
She looks at me and smiles. “Tim Erickson.”
“So, it’s a thing then?”
She nods. “I think it’s a thing.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah. And my dad. He called this morning. He’s coming down tonight.”
I squeeze her hand.
“What about you?” she asks. “What else have I missed?”
Suddenly, I can’t believe that Serena doesn’t know about the letters.
“I read some letters between my mom and my father,” I say. “Well, my mom says he was my father, anyway, but now I don’t know for sure.”
I tell Serena about the letters—the lightning, Carson’s final letter, the abortion, and about Rafe.
Afterward, she just stares out at the bay.
“Wow,” she says. “And you and your Mom haven’t talked about it?”
“Not really. We were about to and then everything happened.”
“You need to talk to her,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I will. As soon as everyone leaves.”
Her face brightens a little. “Speaking of which, you moved into the garage? Can I see?”
I smile and stand, pulling her up with me. We walk back to the house, arms linked, just like old times.
FORTY-FIVE
In search of my mother’s garden, I found my own.
—Alice Walker (writer)
I tiptoe by the back room to the kitchen, find a box of Froot Loops, and bring it back to my new room. Serena and I sit on my bed, eating them dry from the box. We try to catch each other up on every detail of the last few weeks. I tell her more about the letters and Jay, she tells me more about hooking up with Erickson—how she kissed him on a stupid dare at a party and then she kept thinking about him, and she got more attracted to him and, yeah, he’s kind of a stoner, but he’s smart and funny and she likes hanging out with him.
She shows me the marks on her shoulder where the lightning exited her body. They’re red and puffy now but they told her that they’d fade mostly, though she’d have to get periodic scans to check on bone, muscle and scar tissue, maybe for the rest of her life. Even though she says she feels fine, I notice the purplish tint underneath her eyes and the way her voice starts to slow down.
“Hey,” I say. “You should get some rest. Didn’t they tell you to stay in bed today or anything?”
She nods. “Yeah. But my mom is driving me nuts, all over me. She only let me come here because she was going out to get me a phone and she didn’t want to leave me home alone.”
“Do you want to take a nap here? The meeting will break up for the afternoon soon, so it’ll be quiet.”
“Yeah,” she says. “Okay. But promise me you’ll talk to your mom about everything. You really need to.” She pushes the covers down and slips in underneath like she used to when she slept over all the time. It’s nice seeing her here again, on “her side” of my bed in my new room. It seems right.
She falls asleep almost immediately. I can tell by her steady breathing.
I have a text from Jay checking on me, letting me know he’ll be home if I need him. I know he probably wants to come over, but Serena’s right. I need to talk to Mom.
I text Jay about making up with Serena and tell him that when she wakes up, if she’s up for it, maybe we’ll go over there.
JAY: It’s good you two are working it out. Text me later—I can pick you guys up.
I leave Serena sleeping and go to the kitchen. The meeting has broken up and there aren’t any cars in the driveway. Sometimes after the afternoon meeting, they stick around and sit on the deck smoking, drinking, telling the same stories I’ve heard a thousand times. The one time I actually really hoped that they’d stay so I could talk to Mom, and she isn’t here.
I gather up a few glasses from the back room and bring them to the sink. The dishwasher has finished its cycle, so I empty it. I should call Mom and tell her I want to talk, but I’m stalling. And then a car pulls in and the ignition turns off. Mom’s car—I can tell by the little pinging noises it makes when the car door opens.
Mom comes in a few seconds later. I look behind her but she’s alone.
“Oh good,” she says. “You’re here.”
She drops her bag and keys on the kitchen table and pulls me into a hug. I flinch for just a second, but then I realize I want this hug. I put my arms around her, too, and rest my head on her shoulder. She’s a couple of inches taller than me, and very thin, but her arms around me are strong and her shoulder is solid.
“Mom?” I ask, my voice muffled by her shirt. “Will you tell me more about my father now? Please?”
Mom pulls back and holds my face in her hands. Looks into my eyes.
“Yes,” she says. She nods, up and down. “I’ll tell you everything.”
She grabs two bottles of water from the refrigerator and strides out to the deck. I follow. We sit in the two good chairs—the ones with no rips or uneven legs. We don’t bother opening the umbrella since the sun’s peeking in and out of clouds.
Mom breathes in deeply, lets the air out slowly, and then takes a huge swig of water.
“It smells like spring,” she says. “I came here every summer for my whole life, but until we moved here when I was eighteen, I never knew what spring on the Cape smelled like. Spring smells even better than summer. I’d never known what I was missing.”
I breathe in the smell, too—salt water, marsh, and a hint of new leaves fighting their way out despite the unpredictability of the temperature now.
“God, Rachel. I’ve been trying to see things the way you must see them.” She winces like the pain is physical. “I’m sorry I’ve kept him such a secret from you. It’s just, how things ended, it was so painful. And now. I didn’t know until I found that letter the other day that he’d gone to the clinic. We’d fought that morning and I’ve always felt so guilty that he was killed that night before we had a chance to apologize to each other. But now I know how much pain he was in that day. And that box … his mom probably didn’t find it until after I’d already left, so it’s just been sitting in this garage all these years.”
She clears her throat.
“I always thought that I had no control, that this thing—whatever it is—was in charge of everything and would make it all right in the end. I didn’t know how much Carson was suffering. I was doing it to him and using my ability—using my vision of him as my soul mate—as an excuse so I wouldn’t have to make any difficult decisions. Not intentionally, though. But it ruined him, and us, it ruined my relationship with my father.” She pauses. “And with Rafe.”
She looks at me—her eyes so much like mine.
�
��It’s him, then?” I ask. “Rafe is my father?”
FORTY-SIX
Grief is the price we pay for love.
—Queen Elizabeth II (queen)
Mom shakes her head no.
“Carson was your father,” Mom says.
“But I don’t understand,” I say. “You had an abortion and then he died that night.”
“No,” she says. “I didn’t have it.”
I stare out at the bay and watch the slow, lazy flight of a gull.
“So,” I say. “Once you were at the clinic, you changed your mind? You decided you wanted to have a baby?”
Mom looks down at her hands in her lap and stays quiet.
“Mom?”
“I never wanted you to know this,” she says. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I need you to understand that.”
My heart is pounding now.
“Just tell me, Mom.”
“I was so young. And so confused. I didn’t even have a real job—I was helping my father at his office, but he was basically giving me an allowance. And when I found out I was pregnant, my father said he wouldn’t support me and a baby. My father was a tough man, Rachel. He never really understood how damaged I was after the lightning strike. He never actually said it, but I think he always thought I was weak, faking it all, that I was always one half-step away from messing up my life. And then when I wasn’t even married and I got pregnant, it was like I had proved him right. Carson wanted me to go with him to Detroit, to get married, have the baby, but I wasn’t ready to do that life. I didn’t know what I wanted.”
She’s silent. And she still hasn’t answered my question.
“I didn’t change my mind at first,” she says quietly. “The doctor was just about to start when the clinic received a bomb threat. They evacuated everyone.”
My heart beats into my throat. I’m alive because of a bomb threat?
“That night, we found out about Carson. That he’d been killed.”
I know about this part. On his way to Detroit, an SUV driving on the wrong side of the highway had plowed into Carson’s little VW. Both Carson and the driver, whose blood-alcohol level was through the roof, had been killed instantly.
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