Now that I’m officially spending the day with him on Sasha’s first adventure, the pressure to make sure he has a good time is almost overwhelming. We agreed about not stealing a boat — maybe the rest of the day will go smoothly as well.
Still, what if I screw all of this up? I’m the one who knows my way around Sasha’s life, so the pressure is on me, not him. “I was thinking I could show you Sasha’s boat first,” I say, lifting my shoulders. I stammer more words just to keep talking. “You know, so you can see what it looks like. Is that okay?”
He slings his backpack over his shoulders and hooks his thumbs around the straps. “Totally.”
To the left of the Starbucks, a sidewalk dips down to the water’s edge and then wraps around the back of the restaurants and shops. We pass three wooden docks until we get to the row I’ve been to a million times. Unlike the public docks, these private slots are guarded by a metal gate with a key code on the door. Each boat owner has their own code, even though it’s the same gate. I punch in the Cades’ wedding anniversary date and the rusty metal hinges squeak as we enter.
It’s a long walk down the narrow dock to get to slot number eighteen, where Sue’s Paradise floats on the water, filled with enough memories to sink the freaking Titanic. My heart races as we make the trek; we’re not doing anything wrong just by being here, but I’m still afraid of getting caught.
Sue’s Paradise isn’t the biggest boat here, but it’s close. Like a mini yacht, it’s white with a long purple stripe down the middle, two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom down below and a viewing/party area up top. Then, of course, there’s the wide deck at the front of the boat, which makes for the best sunbathing a girl could ask for.
“I forgot we can only see the ass end,” I say with a little laugh when we reach the boat. There’s a small walkway, a ladder up to the top and a narrow door back here, positioned between the two motors.
“They really do have money,” Elijah says, using his hand to shield the sun from his eyes. “I mean, Sasha alluded to it but …”
“Yeah.” I kick at a sharp piece of wood that’s splintered off one of the boards of the dock. “Mr. Cade is a lawyer. He’s uh … Walter Cade.”
Elijah lowers his hand, his brows disappearing into his scraggly hair. “Walter Cade, the tough Texas lawyer?” he says, doing a near-perfect impression of the deep voice-over on Mr. Cade’s TV commercials.
“The very same,” I say, letting out a sigh. The Cades could have afforded to raise two kids, and if Sasha’s birth parents had only given them up at the same time, maybe they could have been together.
Maybe Elijah is thinking the same thing, because his expression is tight, almost like he’s annoyed. He points toward the boat’s shiny backside. “That’s probably for us.”
I follow his finger to an envelope taped to the boat’s back door. I can’t read the writing from here, but the pink Sharpie gives it away.
We share an excited grin as I rush over to the edge of the dock. I pause, looking down at the dark distance of water that stretches about a foot from the dock to the boat’s narrow walkway. This is the part I’ve always hated. That little hop from the shore to the boat, those few inches between safety and safety, where one misstep sends you falling into the abyss below.
“Here,” Elijah says. He leaps over the abyss in a quick step, then turns around and offers me his hand.
Eager to read Sasha’s note, I slip my cupcake bag onto my elbow, take his hand and jump across. Once I’m safely (and probably illegally) on someone else’s private property, I make the mistake of glancing up at Elijah, and our eyes meet. My anxiety only eases up a bit when he blinks. “You okay?” he asks, his hands on my elbows to steady me. He doesn’t smell like motor oil today, just the faint scent of soap.
I nod stupidly and turn around, ripping the envelope off the door. I fold the piece of masking tape around the top of the envelope, noticing a black grease thumbprint on it. I wonder who Sasha asked to put this here? Are they watching us now?
“Let’s go,” I say, leaping back onto the dock without waiting for Elijah’s help. He follows me back down the dock and out the metal gate, and then we head to the boat rental booth a few docks down.
“What do you think it says?” He’s grinning as he nudges me with his elbow.
I turn the envelope over in my hands: another greeting card by the looks of it. I blow out the breath I’ve been holding and gaze up at him, glad he can’t see my eyes through these massive sunglasses. “Something that will make me cry, I’m sure.” I can’t deal with this right now.
Mother Nature has blessed us with a beautiful day for boating out on the lake. The sun glitters on the water, a dark blue oasis in the middle of Texas. There are other boats out, some Jet Skis and an actual yacht, but Elijah steers us away from everyone else, cutting the throttle once we’re in the middle of an empty bay.
“How’d you learn how to drive a boat so well?” I ask, rising from the squishy seat and attempting to smooth down my crazy hair. This tiny boat is nothing like the luxury of Sue’s Paradise. It’s a ski boat, so it’s impossibly small, made only for pulling someone on skis or an inner tube while two or three people sit on board. The pleather seats are cracked and faded, and the inside is covered in laminated safety warnings taped there by the rental company.
Elijah shoots me a grin and then walks the short distance to the back of the boat, where a blue canopy is folded down, locked into place. “You don’t want to know,” he says while he unbuckles the straps. I help him undo the other side and we both raise the canopy, locking it into position. Now we can hang out for hours without getting baked into human cookies.
“Well, now I have to know.” I sit on one of the two long bench seats that face each other. It’s not like I’d say it out loud, but I’m not sure how a guy who grew up in a group home would have ever learned how to drive a boat.
He hefts his backpack up on the opposite bench seat and pulls out a small cooler filled with sodas. After offering me one, he takes out a to-go bag from Paco’s Tacos.
“I’m waiting,” I say, crossing my arms.
“We’re supposed to be talking about Sasha, not my boat-driving knowledge.”
I reach over and take the envelope, which is still unopened, and hold it threateningly over the side of the boat. It’s an empty threat, of course. I’d never toss anything from my best friend.
Elijah shakes his head and says, “Fine. But no laughing.”
“I won’t laugh.”
He grabs three foil-wrapped tacos from the bag, then hands one to me. “I spent like two hours online, watching videos about it. I mean, I figured it can’t be much harder than driving a motorcycle.”
I’m pretty sure I can drive this boat myself if I need to, otherwise his confession might scare me. Instead, I just think it’s really, really cute. I force my lips to remain still. Elijah points at me. “You promised, Raquel!”
His breezy tone makes me think of Sasha. I bring the envelope back into my lap and rip it open.
“Read it out loud?” Elijah says.
“‘Hey favorites, it’s your favorite dead person again. I’m sorry, is that too soon? When can you start making jokes about being dead? Surely I can do it first, since I’m the dead one. Anyhow, you’re getting this note at the marina. I hope you have a kick-ass time at the lake, I hope the weather is beautiful, and if the rules of the afterlife somehow let me hang out on the boat with you, I will.
“‘The second part of your adventure today is a quick one. It’s not really a big deal, but I’m adding it to the list because it’s not every day you get a photo of yourself memorialized forever. Rocki, take him to Karen’s Dance Studio and show him that photo, okay? That’s all for now. I love you and miss you both. Sasha.’”
“A photo at a dance studio?” Elijah asks, his head seeming to rise and fall as the boat rocks from a passing boat’s
wake.
“Sasha was a ballerina for several years,” I explain between bites of my taco. Even after sitting in a backpack on a motorcycle ride, these things are really good. “Sasha won at the state level, and it was the first and only time someone from that little studio won anything fancy. Ten-year-old Sasha is on a massive plaque hanging on the wall. It’s like five feet tall, no joke.”
“I definitely have to see that,” Elijah says, balling up the foil from his first taco and tossing it back in the bag. He reaches for another one and then slides down in the seat, stretching out his legs and tipping his head toward the sun. “This is going to be a great day.”
I watch him, head tipped back, a serene look on his face. I wonder if he ever had days like this as a kid, if he even knows how much he missed out on compared to Sasha’s extraordinary life.
I want to ask him. I want to talk about his life, his childhood, his hopes and dreams and biggest fears. But this adventure isn’t about Elijah, or me. It’s about Sasha. This is her last wish, not mine.
“So,” I say, draining the last sip from my Frappuccino. “Which lake story should I tell you first …”
Chapter Ten
Thirteen days have passed without another word from Sasha. And yes, I’m counting. When your dead best friend sends you messages from beyond the grave, promising adventures, I think it’s okay to get a little obsessive when waiting for the next one. My cell phone constantly needs to be charged because I check my emails so often. I’ve been bitched at by all of my teachers for looking at my phone in class, but I don’t really care.
My whole existence has been whittled down to one thing: waiting.
School goes by in a blur. I’m no longer floating in Sasha’s popularity cloud, and because of it, I’m getting straight A’s in all of my classes again. It’s a little awkward to adjust to being just another face in the crowd, but I like it this way. I don’t want to talk to people who will just remember how nice and sweet she was all the time. I knew the real Sasha, and she means more to me than any of her superficial school friends will ever understand. I don’t exactly like school, but I’m grateful for the distraction. Focusing on assignments and homework keeps my mind temporarily off Sasha’s last wish.
And Elijah.
He also hasn’t emailed me these last two weeks, not that I should expect him to, I guess. I mean, I want to email him, to continue the conversations we had that day at the lake. Talking with Elijah comes easily, even when the subject is something that breaks my heart. Is it weird to wish I could keep doing it even without Sasha’s directions?
What had started out as a sobering reminder of how much I missed Sasha had turned into a wonderful day. Lounging on our rented ski boat, I told Elijah every single lake story I could remember, including the details that may not even matter, like how Sasha always smelled like coconut sunblock at the lake. The only details I didn’t go into were the ones pertaining to me. Like how Zack spent quite a few lake trips with us out on Sasha’s boat.
Then we’d visited Karen’s Dance Studio and I’d shown him the epic photo of his little sister in her ballet heyday. We didn’t stay there very long, since the whole studio was filled with tiny ballerinas and their parents, and we totally didn’t fit in.
Those two days I’ve spent with Elijah were the only times I’ve felt okay since Sasha’s death … maybe even before. Suddenly I realize I’ve been on edge pretty much since the day she was diagnosed.
Even though Elijah is just a sack of genetic material that matches Sasha’s, and even though I’ve only just met him and he could be a serial murderer for all I know, it feels like I can breathe when I’m with him. Like I can stop wishing it had been me instead of Sasha, stop mourning every second of the day, if only to have enough energy to share my life — and Sasha’s — with him.
***
My phone rings bright and early on Sunday morning. As soon as I see Mrs. Cade’s name on the screen, I sit up and stretch and try not to let my voice sound like I’ve been sleeping. She has enough to worry about and I don’t need her fretting over waking me up.
Mrs. Cade’s voice is cheery, almost like it used to be, before everything. “Good morning, sweetheart. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nope,” I say brightly. “It’s nice hearing from you. What’s up?”
“If you’re not busy, I was hoping to have you over for lunch today. I have a big pitcher of strawberry sangria — nonalcoholic, of course — and I’m making chicken Cobb salad with extra avocados,” she says, practically singing the last part because she knows avocados are my favorite. (The rest of the meal was Sasha’s.)
“I’d love to come over for lunch,” I say, and I don’t even have to fake my enthusiasm. Mrs. Cade’s Cobb salads make salad actually good.
“Oh, I’m so excited to hear that,” she says. “Want to come around noon?”
“I’ll be there,” I say. When the call is over, I fall back on my bed, my head crushing into the pillow.
I’ve had Sunday lunch at the Cades’ house a million times, but this is the first time the invitation came directly from Mrs. Cade. I’d promised Sasha that I would always make time to visit her parents after she was gone, but this is the first time I’m actually doing it. I cover my eyes with my arm and make a vow to call Mrs. Cade at least once a week. I swing by Izzy’s just before noon and grab a bouquet of daises, but when Izzy hears who they’re for, she steers me toward a purple orchid instead. She makes a good point that Sasha’s parents have probably thrown out dozens of dead arrangements after the funeral. They need one that will live.
The orchid in my hand, I knock on the Cades’ massive front door. It swings open almost immediately, and Mrs. Cade’s eyes sparkle when she sees me. Unlike Sasha, my friend’s adoptive mother has brown eyes and long, white-blond hair that’s always a little frizzy. But her welcoming smile looks just like my best friend’s.
It is deeply weird to be here without Sasha.
“This is for you,” I say, holding out the orchid to her mom. Sunny appears next to her, his tail thumping against the doorframe.
“How beautiful! Thank you.” Mrs. Cade tucks the orchid into the crook of her elbow and then pulls me into a hug, the scent of her perfume overpowering the real flowers. “How have you been, sweetheart?”
“I’m okay.” It’s the truest thing I’ve said all week. Okay. Not good, not bad, just in neutral. On impulse, I want to ask her how she is, but I hold back. No reason to make her lie to me.
She gives my arm a squeeze and then closes the door behind us. “Lunch is ready. Since it’s such a beautiful day, I thought we’d eat outside. What do you think?”
“Sounds good to me. Is Mr. Cade here?”
She shakes her head as we walk into the large kitchen, where the white granite counters reflect the sunlight from the glass wall behind us. The entire north side of the Cades’ house overlooks the lake, and the architect made this wall mostly windows because of it.
“He’s at work, on a Sunday, if you can believe it,” she says with a laugh. “They’re looking into acquiring some smaller firms in the greater Austin area, so they do all that work on the weekends so as not to interfere with their daily work.”
“Cool,” I say, remembering the look on Elijah’s face when he discovered that Sasha’s adoptive dad is the famous Walter Cade. I bet they would be just as shocked if they knew about Elijah. An uncomfortable feeling settles into my stomach, but I try to ignore it. For now, I have to pretend he doesn’t exist.
Two perfectly arranged chicken Cobb salads wait on the counter, their toppings in neat little rows. Mine has two rows of diced avocado and a cup of ranch dressing next to it.
“Looks great,” I say. Maybe I’m not doing so well if even a salad can bring me to the brink of tears. Cobb salad was Sasha’s favorite — she was of the mindset that a salad isn’t worth eating if it’s not full of bacon bits, ranch dressing a
nd cheddar cheese. Can’t say I disagree with that.
The back of the house has beautiful views of the lake. There’s a long porch that wraps around it and a matching balcony upstairs as well. I can’t believe Sasha will never see this view again.
We sit at the patio table and Mrs. Cade pulls the plastic wrap from her glass pitcher of sangria. Little orange slices and strawberries float in the ice as she pours our glasses.
Sunny sits between our chairs, his eyes on the table. If any scrap of food drops, he’ll be right there to get it. I can almost see Sasha, sitting here with us, tossing him a piece of bacon every few seconds. Mrs. Cade would gripe at her for feeding the dog table scraps and Sasha would apologize. Then she’d do it again.
Having lunch with Sasha’s mom isn’t that uncomfortable after all. I feared I’d be swallowed up with guilt, but soon, we’ve fallen into conversation and it’s almost like the old days. We chat about school, how my parents are doing and about working at Izzy’s. Mrs. Cade is concerned that I might give up my dream of going to vet school just because I picked up a part-time job in a totally different field, but I assure her I’m still excited to work at the animal clinic next summer. I get the feeling that she cares more about my future now that her child isn’t getting one.
We live just outside of the Texas hill country, so the land slopes but isn’t as jagged and hilly as it is near Austin. The Cades’ neighborhood is on a big hill that slopes downward toward the lake, and then the grass turns to rocks and slips into the water a few acres away. Although it’s considered a lake house, their backyard is mostly trees and rocks, with some grassy patches between.
Two deer amble through the yard, their ears twitching.
“Go get the bucket,” Mrs. Cade whispers, pointing toward a plastic container near the porch railing. I grin and rush over there, unscrewing the cap. Inside is a bunch of dried corn, and the deer freaking love it. I grab a handful and toss it out.
The deer rush to eat it all and then look back up at me, begging for more. I toss another handful, my elbows warm on the wooden deck railing as I lean over and coo at the adorable wild whitetails. Soon, more appear out of the trees and I’m feeding about twenty of them while Mrs. Cade comments on how cute they are. It’s not nearly as much fun without Sasha here to give them all funny names.
The Last Wish of Sasha Cade Page 7