Forever & Always: The Ever Trilogy (Book 1)

by Jasinda Wilder

  Caden. He was beside me, floating like me, staring out at the water and the green needle points of the pine trees. He knew I was there. I could sense his awareness. He turned to look at me, and this action, for him, was unfairly normal and quick. His eyes pierced me, deep brown and heavy with sadness.

  And then he was several feet away and reaching for me. I reached for him, stretched, seeing the sadness in his eyes and knowing that if I could just take his hand in mine, he would be okay. But I couldn’t reach. It was like there was an invisible force field between our hands keeping us apart. As soon as our fingers neared, they would shear off, slide away, unable to quite meet.

  I woke up sweating, heart pounding in my chest, sadness washing through me. It was almost like it had been a nightmare, rather than merely the inability to hold someone’s hand in a dream.

  A thought struck me and I left my bed, tripping over my feet as I rushed down the hallway toward my studio. I flicked on the light switch and stood in front of the easel, staring with my mouth open. Even as I painted it, I hadn’t realized what I’d done.

  In the painting, neither Caden’s nor my feet were touching the ground.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  Caden

  The funeral was the second worst day of my life. Gramps had called Dad to say he and Gram couldn’t make the trip. They couldn’t leave the ranch for that long. Uncle Gerry showed up, though, red-eyed and silent and stoic as only a Monroe can be. Grandma and Grandpa Kensington, Mom’s parents, had flown in from Miami, red-eyed and looking ancient. They’d never approved of Dad, I’d come to realize. They never came to see us, and we never went to see them. They sent me a card on my birthday and at Christmas, but that was it. When I’d asked about them, at age ten or eleven, I think it was, Mom had simply told me she didn’t get along with her parents, that they disagreed on some issues. I let it go then, since I didn’t understand how that was possible, or what it meant. But at the funeral, I began to glean some understanding. It was silent anger, their disapproval clear in the way they glared at Dad, in the way they stayed far away from him. I might as well have not even been there.

  I sat next to Dad in the church for the service, listening to words by some preacher I’d never met, who clearly didn’t know Mom and only spoke in generalities. Then I sat in the passenger seat of Dad’s truck, the orange flag waving from his antenna. The radio was off, and his eyes were glazed, staring at the road ahead of him. Twenty minutes from the church to the cemetery, and he never said a word. He hadn’t spoken a word to me at all, as a matter of fact, since the day she’d died. Two weeks, and he’d come and gone in silence, trudging as if weighed down by something I couldn’t see.

  He didn’t speak at the burial, either. He stood in his suit, looking uncomfortable in it. He rubbed the twisted, broken knuckles of his hand with his thumb and stared at the casket as the minister spoke yet again.

  “…Janice will be missed, this we all know. She was much loved, and was an amazing mother, a wonderful wife, and a loving daughter.” The preacher was old, thin gray hair swept back, pale blue eyes that seemed falsely sympathetic and even a little bored. “So now, as we prepare to say goodbye to Janice, let us remember her as she lived—”

  I couldn’t take it any longer. “Enough! Just stop!” I heard the words burst from me, saw the shocked expression on everyone’s faces. Dad just watched me in apathetic disinterest. “You didn’t know her, you old asshole. So just—just stop talking. No one else seems to want to say anything, or even admit the truth. She died a shitty death. It was slow, and painful. And…Dad doesn’t know how to live without her. Look at him! I know you’re supposed to celebrate a loved one’s life instead of mourning their death or whatever, but that’s bullshit. She’s gone. She was my mom, and she’s gone. I’ll never get her back. So the rest of you can stand here and act all pious and sad, but I’m…I’m not gonna listen to any more bullshit that doesn’t mean anything. It’s fucking stupid. I’m going home. I just…I want my mom back, but that’s never gonna happen.”

  Grandpa Kensington stepped forward, rage on his face. “Listen here, young man! I won’t have you disrespecting my daughter—”

  I stormed past him. “You don’t get to talk to me. You weren’t here while she was alive, and you weren’t there when she died, and you don’t get to act like you care now. So just shut up.”

  No one else moved. The preacher was stunned into silence, Mom’s friends and co-workers clearly didn’t have any idea how to react, and Dad…he was just staring down at the casket. I kept walking, leaving the cluster of people around the hole in the ground. It was another beautiful day, warm, the sun high and bright, the sky blue. And yet…behind me was a wooden box containing my mother’s corpse.

  I wanted to go back and clutch the casket, beg for her to come back, to hug me. Beg my dad to hug me. To tell me it would be okay. I wanted to go back and say goodbye. Instead, I kept walking. I walked between the rows of headstones, past concrete angels and white stone crosses. I found the main road and kept walking. Mile after mile, until my feet hurt. I wasn’t even sure I was going in the right direction, and it didn’t matter. I just kept walking. Eventually I came to an intersection I recognized, and oriented myself homeward. About two miles from home, Dad passed me, pulled into the next driveway, and waited. I climbed into the passenger seat, and he drove me the rest of the way in silence.

  I’d been walking for over two and a half hours, I realized, and he was just now heading home?

  I smelled the alcohol on him, the stench potent even from a couple feet away. “You’re drunk? And you’re driving?” He stopped at a stoplight, and I threw the door open. “I’ll walk the rest of the way home.” I slammed the car door closed.

  He didn’t answer, just pulled away as the light turned green. When I got home half an hour later, he was in his study already. I passed the closed door, but stopped when I heard the distinctive sound of Mom’s favorite song: “Paint It Black” by The Rolling Stones. She used to listen to that song all the time. She would play the album on repeat every Sunday morning as she cleaned the house, blasting it loud enough to hear it throughout the house. Whenever the album would come to “Paint It Black,” she would stop what she was doing and sit down and listen to it, turn it back to the start and listen to it through. It was nostalgic, I think. Dad was always listening to either country or classic rock, and I think “Paint It Black” had been a song they’d listened to while they were dating, just getting to know each other. She told me once that it was their song. Hers and Dad’s.

  Now Dad was listening to it. I leaned against the wall beside the door and listened, too. The song ended, and then began again. I didn’t have the stomach to listen to it through a second time. I collapsed on my bed, too heartsick to do anything but sleep.

  ~ ~ ~ ~

  The box was waiting for me when I got home from school, about two weeks after Mom died. It was a huge box, thin but four feet wide by six feet high, and fairly heavy. It was addressed to me, and it had Ever’s address in the upper left-hand corner of the UPS shipping sticker.

  I carried it inside, up to my room and leaned it against the bed. I didn’t open it yet. I was almost afraid to. I knew what it was: a painting, something by Ever. Her letters lately had been full of rambling chatter, which I actually found soothing. It was a few minutes of randomness in my week, time when I could unfocus from my life and tune in to Ever’s.

  Her sister was driving her nuts, she told me. Always exercising and dieting and trying to get skinnier, when according to Ever, her twin sister Eden was just simply not built to be skinny and svelte. I didn’t know what to say back to her about her sister, so I didn’t write anything about it. I had tried to keep my letters fairly upbeat, but I couldn’t always manage it. I wasn’t doing well. I was lonely. I was scared. Dad was a zombie. He went to work, he came home, and he vanished into his study. I hadn’t found him passed out again since that first night, but I knew he was drinking. The kitchen garbage bags clinked when I took th
em out, and the can that I wheeled to the street every week clinked and clanked as well. I searched his office one day while he was at work, but found nothing. And even if I had found a bottle, what was I supposed to do with it? Throw it away? Dad wasn’t stable; there was no telling how he’d react.

  I finally opened the box and slid the Styrofoam-padded wooden brace free from the cardboard. Unwrapping the painting took forever, as Ever had packaged it to kingdom come in an effort to keep the piece from getting ruined during shipping. As I finally revealed the painting, I understood why.

  It showed Ever and me side by side, facing a lake. We were nearly holding hands, but not quite. There was something achingly sad in the way we both were reaching for each other but not touching. In the upper-right hand corner of the painting, almost lost amidst the trees, were two white birds. Doves.

  Our mothers.

  I almost started crying all over again.

  It wasn’t until I’d pounded a nail into a stud over my desk and hung the painting that I noticed neither Ever’s nor my feet were touching the ground. There was something significant to that, but I couldn’t quite figure out what.

  Dear Ever,

  I love the painting you sent me. It’s really, really amazing. I bet when you’re a famous artist, it’ll be worth a ton of money. Not that I’d ever sell it, but you know what I mean.

  There’s a lot going on in that piece, though. I don’t even know where to start. The way our hands aren’t quite touching, it’s like looking at a picture of someone about to fall. Maybe that doesn’t make any sense to you, but that’s the feeling I get. The only thing I don’t understand is why we’re floating. I almost didn’t notice it.

  My dad isn’t doing well. He’s drinking a lot, I think. I mean, I know he is, but he’s hiding it. He was never a drinker before. A few beers on the weekends, maybe a glass of wine with Mom in the evening. Nothing like this. I didn’t tell you then, but the night Mom died, Dad drank a whole bottle of whisky by himself. He puked all over his study and I had to clean it up.

  I don’t know what to do. I’m going to school, I’m making myself breakfast and dinner. I’m cleaning the house and doing the laundry and the dishes and Dad just…ignores me. Growing up, I never doubted he loved me. I knew he did. He’s not the type to say it all the time, but he spent time with me. You know? He’d play Legos with me, or throw the football. Take me to a Tigers game every once in a while. Talk to me, give me advice on drawing. Watch a movie with me. He used to watch James Bond movies every weekend. He only watched the Sean Connery ones. He had them all on DVD, and he’d watch one or two every Saturday.

  Now he works, drinks, and sleeps. He sleeps in his study, I’m pretty sure. He showers in the bathroom by my room instead of using the one in the master bedroom. I’m pretty sure he hasn’t gone back in there since Mom died.

  Some days, I think your letters are all that keeps me sane.

  Your friend,

  Cade

  School was just something to do. I went, I attended class, I did my homework. I didn’t know what else to do with my life. Dad was in a similar holding pattern. He was still drinking, I think, but he kept it to himself. I never found him passed out, never caught him coming home drunk. He finally closed the door to his and Mom’s room. I think he took his clothes out, and I know he switched the old beat-up leather couch in his office for a futon. He worked, paid the bills, and left money on the kitchen island for me. I did the grocery shopping, but I did it the way a fifteen-year-old boy would. I got what I could carry home. That meant Mac ’n Cheese, hot dogs, frozen meals that could be microwaved, burritos and oven pizzas.

  I didn’t make any friends in high school. People tried to talk to me, but I just couldn’t figure out what to say to them. I wanted to go home and draw, read Ever’s latest letter, and play Call of Duty and Modern Warfare.

  Time slipped by, fall giving way to winter, winter to spring. In April, I had to find another shoebox to hold all the letters.

  My sixteenth birthday had passed almost unnoticed. Dad had left me a card on the island, with “happy birthday, love dad” written in sloppy block letters, and the keys to Mom’s Jeep Commander. That was it. I’d taken to forging his signature for things, including the practice time for my license. I did practice driving, too, although it was always alone. I’d go around the block in my neighborhood a few times, and then once I got comfortable with that, I’d go a bit farther, a few blocks around, always within my subdivision. It was two months after my birthday that I finally got the courage to venture two miles down Nine Mile Road before turning around in a Burger King parking lot and going home. I paid for, took, and passed the level two test on my own.

  Ever’s letters were still the highlight of every week. I got a letter from her on the day school let out for the summer.

  Cade,

  We never talked about when our birthdays were, so I don’t expect you to know that I turned sixteen yesterday. Daddy took me to a BMW dealership and bought me a car. It was kind of stupid, since I just barely got my restricted license. Going to get the car was the most time we’d spent together in months, and it was awkward at best. He didn’t know what to say to me, and I’m just mad at him for shutting down when I needed him, and now I don’t need him, really. Now that I’ve got a car of my own and my license, I’ll be pretty much completely on my own, I think.

  You had a birthday too, didn’t you? I mean, of course you did, but I just don’t know when it was, or will be. Regardless, happy birthday. I hope it’s a good day for you.

  What are you doing for the summer? I’m not going back to Interlochen this summer. It was fun, but it’s not something I want to do again. I’d rather stay home and paint and wander around taking pictures. That’s what I did today, actually. I kind of skipped the last day of school and drove myself (yay!) down to Birmingham with my camera. I spent most of the day downtown taking pictures of pretty much everything. I’ll probably paint using a couple of the photos I took. I don’t know for sure yet, though.

  In good news, Eden is eating normally again, finally, after spending most of the year eating no carbs and counting calories and drinking shakes and exercising. She went kind of nuts, honestly. Hours every week with Michael, the personal trainer Dad had hired after Eden pestered him about it for a month last spring. Thank God for that. It’s not a weight thing. I’ve told you about this before, I know, but it’s a big issue between Eden and me. It’s the only thing we actually fight about. We’re sisters and we bicker like you’d expect, but we never really actually fight-fight about things, except Eden and her insecurity. I want her to be happy, you know? But I think she feels like she’s not as good as me or something. I hate that SO MUCH. I can’t even tell you. I’m just me, nothing special. I’ve got friends at school and I guess I’m kind of popular or whatever, but it’s not like I’m trying. And I always make sure Eden is part of everything.

  I’ll miss not seeing you at camp this year, but maybe now that we both are sixteen we can meet somewhere? Maybe not. I don’t know.

  Anyway, write back soon, and remember, you can always tell me anything.

  Always your friend,

  Ever

  I felt shitty that I hadn’t even thought of her birthday. I pulled out a sheet of blank paper and started sketching a birthday cake. I colored it pink and white, drew in the candles so they looked like they’d just been blown out, and wrote “Happy Birthday” above it and “Make a wish!” beneath it.

  Ever,

  I’m sorry I didn’t know about your birthday. Mine was a few weeks ago. June 3rd. Yours is June 12th? Happy birthday! I drew you a picture of a birthday cake. Kind of stupid, I guess, but happy birthday anyway. Mine was pretty lame. Dad gave me Mom’s car, but I didn’t even see him. He just put the keys on a birthday card, and that was it. I’m used to it, though. Nothing strange. I actually taught myself to drive. Although I think I mentioned that I drive on Gramps’s farm a lot, but it’s different when I could get pulled over. No one cares on t
he farm. Gramps has like several thousand acres, and I can’t really get arrested or get in a wreck out there, you know?

  I’m glad to hear about your sister. Is it okay if I just leave that topic there? I think as a guy anything I say would be either wrong or stupid, so I just won’t say anything. Except, you ARE something special. You really are.

  I’m going to Gramps’s farm this summer. I need it. I need to get away from Michigan, away from Dad, away from the house where Mom should be but isn’t. I need to be exhausted and sore and out in the open. I don’t know if you get that, but I just need it. So I’ll miss you, too. Maybe we can meet before school starts. I’ll still write you from Wyoming, and after you get that letter you can write me there. I don’t know the address off the top of my head. I know Dad has it written down somewhere, but I stay out of his study. I’m not sure how I’m getting to Wyoming, honestly. Usually Dad flies out there with me and stays a few days, then goes back home, but somehow I don’t think he’s going this year. Maybe I’ll just drive myself out there. I have Gramps’s phone number, so I could call him and get directions. I think Dad has a GPS system in his truck I could borrow.

  Driving all the way to Wyoming by myself sounds scary, but I’m not sure how else to do it. I don’t think I can get a plane ticket on my own. I guess I could ask Dad for help, but I just don’t want to. I’d rather do it myself. He’s checked out of my life, basically, and I don’t see the point of even trying to involve him. So I get what you said at the beginning of your last letter about being mad at your dad. If I was to spend time with Dad, I’d be mad, too. Now, I’m just…trying to make it one day at a time on my own.