Those poor flood victims. They’ve lost so much and don’t even have their pets for comfort.
This is the moment. You can see it on Penelope’s face. She’s having a revelation.
If the flood victims had their animals, could hug their puppies and kittens, they’d feel better too. It wouldn’t undo the flood, of course. But maybe it would make the coming days a little more bearable for them.
That weekend, Penelope sets up a lemonade stand in front of the supermarket. She mixed the lemonade all by herself. She carefully painted the sign:
FIND THE MISSING FLOOD ANIMALS!
Let’s watch as she stops every person who walks by. Tells them how important it is to Make a Difference.
“This is a fund-raiser to locate and return displaced flood pets to their owners,” she tells Gil Badgley.
Gil scratches at his beard. “Dontcha suppose they need homes more than their pets?”
Eight-year-old Penelope, she’s brimming with earnestness. “How would you feel if Tuco was out there, lost and scared, with no way to get back to you?”
Gil buys a cup of lemonade.
All day, people pass Penelope’s table, and she says, “Don’t you love animals? Don’t you want to contribute? Don’t you want to Make a Difference?”
At the end of the day, Penelope’s earned forty-two dollars. Her mom helps her seal it in an envelope addressed to the flood relief program, along with carefully worded instructions for how the money should be spent. That night, Penelope goes to sleep knowing that she may not have changed the world, but she tried.
Turn to the next page of this history book.
There’s Penelope brainstorming fund-raiser ideas, giving money to charities.
She keeps loose change in her pockets in case she runs into Barnabas Fairley.
She has her mom drive her to Las Vegas so she can volunteer at the women and children’s center.
Year after year after year of helping people, and Penelope’s desire to Make a Difference grows.
Sure, it’s admirable.
But what Penelope doesn’t understand: some people don’t want to be helped.
Let’s read ahead. Penelope, now seventeen, has her prewish meeting with the mayor. In his office, she holds her head high and tells him she’s going to wish for money.
Mayor Fontaine listens from the other side of the most massive desk Penelope has ever seen. She thinks about how much wood was wasted, how many trees were killed to build that ridiculous desk. She thinks about taking an ax to it and how the kindling could keep homeless people from freezing to death during harsh winters.
“A sound choice,” Mayor Fontaine says. “The best way to ensure a comfortable life.”
“Oh, it’s not for me,” Penelope replies. “It’s to send to charities and relief funds. I can’t actually wish to change the world outside Madison, so sending money to support causes is the best I can do.”
The mayor peers at Penelope with his tiny, black eyes, making her squirm.
Penelope figures the mayor thinks she’s lying. But she doesn’t care what he thinks. Though she’d never admit it, Penelope doesn’t like Mayor Fontaine. He never contributes to her bake sales and probably hasn’t helped anyone in his entire life.
“Whatever it’s for, the wish is straightforward,” the mayor says. “Let’s talk about wording.”
They talk, and plans are put in place.
But this is Madison, where life seldom goes according to plan.
The night before Penelope’s scheduled to make her wish, Fletcher Hale throws himself off a cliff.
Penelope isn’t exactly close to Fletcher. But she knows him, because she’s made an effort to know every person at their school.
She definitely doesn’t want him to die.
She wants him to be happy.
She wants to help him.
Penelope scurries around the community center, handing out tissues and offering comfort. She calls Fletcher’s parents, offers to assist them with anything they need, anything at all. There are so many people who need her right now.
Except the person who most needs help is out of reach.
What can she do for Fletcher?
Penelope thinks of a documentary she saw once, about people who tried to kill themselves by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge but failed. Every one of those people said that, as they were falling, they regretted their decision.
It’s not human nature to want to die, Penelope knows. All over the world, even in the most dire circumstances, humans instinctually fight to live.
At the community center, Penelope wanders to the corner where a friend of hers sits. Her sad, mixed-up, fool of a friend.
“Are you OK?” Penelope asks him.
He runs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. I guess. I mean, I hated the guy, but I never wanted this.”
Of course you didn’t, Penelope thinks.
No one did.
Not even Fletcher, not really.
And that’s when Penelope Rowe takes the situation into her own hands.
She pulls the mayor away from the people he’s talking to.
“About my wish,” she says.
“Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten. You’ll still get your wish.” He smiles at her with understanding, seeing his own wish-greed reflected in her eagerness.
Penelope shakes her head. “It’s not that. I want to change it.”
The mayor listens to what she wants to do. The understanding fades from his face. He argues and tells her it’s a waste, it’s unnatural. He reminds her that there are rules against wishing someone back from the dead.
“He’s not dead yet,” says Penelope. “But he will be if we don’t hurry.”
Astonishingly, the mayor relents.
They go to the wish cave.
And Penelope wishes for Fletcher Hale to live.
She wants to see him right afterward, but Mayor Fontaine convinces her to wait out the night. After all, no one’s ever attempted to save someone this close to death. No one knows how it’ll work, or if it’ll work.
Turn to the next page in the history book. The following morning.
Watch Penelope get up early and hurry to the doctor’s office. See how kindly she smiles at poor Mrs. Wilkes who’s slumped behind the reception desk, looking like she hasn’t slept for days.
Mrs. Wilkes says, “Yes, Fletcher’s alive.”
She continues, “No, honey, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see him.”
But as we know, Penelope Rowe is nothing if not persistent.
“Fletcher?” she says softly, stepping into the dim room.
His face is turned away from her.
Penelope moves closer, and she’s glad Fletcher isn’t looking at her, because she’s not able to mask her horror.
His body is broken, bruised.
“Hi, Fletcher. It’s Penelope,” she whispers.
“Are you the one who did this?” he asks.
His voice is bitter. No one’s ever spoken to her with that tone before.
“Yes. I wished for you to live.”
Fletcher shifts to look at her. His eyes are dead, hollow. And more than anything, Penelope wishes he would turn away again, because she can’t bear to see his pain.
“You should have let me die,” Fletcher says.
“I…I thought—”
“This wasn’t your choice to make.”
Then he tells her to get out, which Penelope is happy to do.
She’s shaking so much, she can’t trust herself to drive. She pulls over at the gas station. There’s her friend. He can tell something is wrong. He speaks with such concern it’s as if, for once, he cares about someone other than himself. Penelope can’t help herself—she spills everything.
And as she
talks, Penelope has a new revelation. Helping people is good. But it’s also a two-way street.
You can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved.
Chapter 19
Countdown: 10 Days
Sometime during the night, Uncle Jasper found his way onto our living room couch. His mouth is hanging open, and I have the urge to throw something in it, see if it’ll rouse him from his drunken stupor.
In the kitchen, my mom is in a coupon-cutting frenzy. Scraps of paper fly around like confetti.
“Looks like Jasper had a rough night,” I say to her, crossing to the fridge for a glass of orange juice.
“As usual,” Ma replies in a clipped tone.
“Why do you always rescue him? Maybe it would do him good to fend for himself.”
“Because he’s family, Eldon,” she says. “I may not always like what Jasper does. I may not always like him. But I love him, and you do everything you can for the people you love.”
Ma’s speaking in an even tone, but it sounds like she’s barely holding back rage. Uncle Jasper doesn’t usually get her so worked up.
“Uh…is everything OK?” I ask.
Ma slams down her scissors. “Did you know about Fletcher?”
I guess the secret is out.
She glares at me with eyes that are red and glassy and burning with fury. “Did you know he got a second chance? A stranger gave him a second chance, and my own son won’t do the same for his sister.”
I don’t speak. Because what could I possibly say?
I’m sorry, I think. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m letting you down, but I can’t save Ebba, and the longer you pretend I can, the more painful this is going to be.
“Ma—” I begin quietly.
“Don’t, Eldon. I don’t want to hear it.” She rests her elbows on the table and puts her face in her hands. I expect to hear sobs, but she’s silent. She’s waiting for me to leave. She can’t even stand the sight of my face.
I slip out of the kitchen without getting my orange juice. I couldn’t have stomached it anyway.
• • •
“It’s like he was resurrected,” says Merrill.
We’re on our way to Vegas. I’m sitting shotgun, and Norie’s in the back seat, leaning forward to hear us better.
“He wasn’t resurrected,” I say. “He wasn’t dead yet.”
“From what I hear, he was pretty goddamn close. What was Penelope thinking?”
“I think it’s honorable,” Norie chimes in from the back seat. “Penelope made a huge sacrifice for Fletcher.”
“How can you say that?” Merrill replies, swerving a little. I consider asking him to pull over so I can drive. “She played God. You can’t possibly be cool with that.”
“Or maybe God wanted Fletcher to have a second chance.”
Merrill glances over at me. “Come on, Eldo. Back me up here.”
I haven’t worked out my feelings though. I think about Penelope’s haunted expression. The fear and regret that she couldn’t hide with an optimistic smile. We always assumed you couldn’t wish to resurrect or kill someone because it’s too complicated. Like the wish cave doesn’t have that much power, yeah? But maybe there’s more to it than that.
Right before Fletcher jumped, he must have been dead in his own mind. Did Penelope’s wish get him stuck in some strange in-between? His body may be alive, but what about the rest of him? Maybe Penelope screwed him up even worse than he was before.
On the other hand, isn’t this what I wanted for Ebba? If I could turn back the clock, wouldn’t I want Fletcher to use his wish to restore her health before she was whisked out of town?
Is it different because Ebba didn’t choose to end her life?
Realizing he’s not getting help from me, Merrill goes on. “Everyone has a right to make their own decisions. None of us know what Fletcher was going through. Penelope overstepped.”
“And what if next week, Fletcher would have felt differently?” Norie asks. “Just because he was in a dark place a few nights ago doesn’t mean he’d stay there forever. Penelope may have prevented an outcome Fletcher didn’t really want in the first place.”
I imagine this same argument is happening all over Madison. But what’s the point? It won’t change what happened. Why debate what’s already done?
I tune out Merrill and Norie, gaze out the window, and watch the desert roll by. Dirt and Joshua trees and tumbleweeds, mountains in the distance. The landscape all looks the same: one great big wasteland, with Madison lost in the middle of it.
An hour and a half later, Las Vegas appears in the distance. It’s always jarring to first see in on the horizon. You’re driving through a barren land, when suddenly, there’s a pyramid, a castle, the Eiffel Tower, the New York skyline.
When I was a kid, my family took day trips to Vegas a few times a year. We’d eat at a buffet, then wander the Strip. Watch sharks swim through a shipwreck at Mandalay Bay or play midway games at Circus Circus or laugh at people in togas at Caesar’s Palace. As if it was totally normal, all those things being together in one place. The Strip is like an eccentric fantasy.
But Ebba isn’t on the Strip. Obviously. No fantasyland for her.
Merrill drives to a sketchy part of town where there’s nothing but medical buildings and homeless people. He pulls into the parking lot of the nursing home where Ebba’s lived—or sort of lived—for the last several months. It’s an unimpressive building that reeks of hopelessness.
Before the accident, I thought nursing homes were only for old people. Not the case. Yeah, they’re for people who need long-term care they can’t get at home. But they’re also for people who can only stay alive with the help of machines, people who got kicked out of the hospital. The hospital only lets you stay if there’s a possibility you’ll get better, and a nursing home is where you stay, old or young, while you slowly wait to die.
“Want us to go in with you?” Merrill asks.
I shake my head.
He points at a Del Taco across the road and tells me they’ll wait for me there.
It’s been a while since I visited Ebba, but the woman at the front desk remembers me. I remember her too, because she always tries to flirt with me, which is extremely off-putting. She’s several years older than me, and also, who goes to a nursing home to get a date?
“Your sister will be so happy to see you,” the woman says, smiling and twirling her hair around her finger.
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
My sister won’t be happy to see me. She won’t even know I’m here. I want to shout at the front desk lady, but I don’t. There are a couple of other people in the waiting room, and they don’t want to hear that shit. They have loved ones here too. And even though we all know it’s a stopover place, a preparing-to-die place, I’m not gonna say it out loud.
The wait isn’t long, but it feels like a million years. It’s enough time for me to get angry. I shouldn’t have to wait to see my sister. I shouldn’t have to travel to a nursing home to see my sister. She should be at home, where she belongs, living the life she deserves.
It’s not fair. Nothing about the situation is fair. Sorrow rises in my body, wrapping around my throat, trying to choke the breath out of me.
When a nurse finally leads me into Ebba’s room, my hands are sweaty, and my mouth is dry.
Ebba looks the same as last time I saw her. The exact same. Her tiny body is lost in the hospital bed. She’s just a kid—we celebrated her thirteenth birthday here a month ago. Before the accident, Ebba gushed about how she couldn’t wait to be a teenager. She was more eager to grow up than anyone else I know, and now she never will.
Life is nothing but a cruel joke.
“Hey, Ebs,” I say, pulling a chair next to her bed.
Her eyes are closed, but she doesn’t seem peacefu
l. The old Ebba, Ebba before the accident, smiled constantly. Even in her sleep, she’d have a half smile on her face. Without it, she doesn’t look like she’s in a coma—she looks like she’s already dead.
I pick up her hand and squeeze it. I listen to the machinery that’s keeping her alive. I have no idea what to say.
“Fletcher Hale tried to kill himself.”
That’s totally the wrong thing to share. If Ebba was herself, she’d tease me about my shitty bedside manner. More than anything, I want her to wake up and make fun of me. She could mock me for the rest of our lives, if only she’d wake up.
“My wish is soon,” I try instead. But that doesn’t feel right either.
I imagine Ebba rolling her eyes. She was big on rolling her eyes. And she’d say something like, “Oh gawd, Eldon, it’s only a wish. Don’t have a major freak-out.”
Then I would’ve mimicked her in a high-pitched voice, “Oh gawd.”
She would have shrieked with laughter.
And it would have made me laugh too.
And our parents would come in the room asking what’s so funny, but we’d be cracking up too hard to answer, and it wouldn’t be their business anyway, because they aren’t a part of that secret club siblings have.
“I’ve been listening to Robert Nash,” I tell Ebba. “He’s getting weirder. The other night, he did a show about how George Washington was an alien abductee and our whole political system is actually based on an extraterrestrial government.”
Laugh, I will Ebba. Please crack a smile. That radio show is one of your favorite things in the world, and I know you must miss it. I know you want to squeal over some ridiculous conspiracy, slug me in the arm when I tell you it’s crap.
But her face doesn’t change. There’s no sign that my sister is still inside her body. I keep looking for her, but she’s not there. My mom says she can feel Ebba with us, and I nod like I agree, but the truth is, I never have. For me, she was gone the second she was hit by Fletcher’s car.
“Tag, Ebba. You’re it,” I say. “Now it’s your turn. You have to tag me. You have to leave me a note.” My voice cracks. I’m completely losing it.
I lean forward and rest my forehead against the edge of her hospital bed. I can’t do it. I can’t sit here and talk to an empty room. I won’t bustle around like my mom, arranging stuffed animals, hanging posters, chatting away like Ebba’s sitting in bed taking notes.
As You Wish Page 16