“What else did he say?”
He opened his mouth, and then shook his head and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I don’t think I should talk about it,” he said.
I was confused. “Why not?”
“Look, Catherine. He has some serious shit on his mind, and he thinks I have some direct line to God or something, you know? What he said is, like, confidential or whatever.”
“How often does he—”
“He’s been out here maybe five or six times.”
That blew me away. “What do you do?” I asked.
“He talks, and I just sit with him and listen, you know?”
“He knows you’re there,” I said. “I mean, he knows.”
“I know! It really freaked me out at first, but I got kinda used to the company.”
“Have you tried…touching…”
“No! He’s a guy!” Michael cried, then, “Okay…maybe once or twice.”
“And?”
Michael rolled his eyes and then softened them for me. “You’re still the only one I make the earth move for.” He looked sideways at me and grinned meaningfully. I blushed again, and he looked down at his feet.
“So…do you want me to give him a message or some advice…for his…um… issues?”
“No! How the hell would I know what to tell him? I screwed my own life up enough, and I’m busy working on yours,” he growled.
“Michael…”
“How’s your mom, then?” He was intent on proving his point, but I knew I would definitely lose that debate, so I kept quiet.
“I thought so,” he murmured. We’d reached the little footbridge, and he stopped in the middle of it and whirled around to face me.
“I never asked you to avenge my death, Catherine.”
“Then what am I supposed to do for you?” I looked down at the trampled snow at my feet, feeling useless. I’d tried to help him face his past, and I’d made sure the people responsible for the destruction of his life were paying, but he was still just as stuck here as he was the first day I’d met him in the woods.
He bent over and tilted his head so he could look up into my face. “Forgive her,” he said softly, urgently. “Tell her you’re sorry. Tell her—”
“I can’t do that!”
He stood up abruptly and looked away, his jaw flexing in frustration. “I knew this would—”
“I had another dream, Michael.”
He swung his head back around, alert and on guard.
“You came to me at the edge of the pool. Only you were alive again…barely. You said my mom did this to you.” I gestured with my hands toward his ghostly body.
He shook his head. “No…”
“And then you…and then you…” I couldn’t describe how I’d felt when he’d collapsed, bleeding and dying, before me, and I sagged back against the bridge’s handrail. It had all been so real, like it had been within my power to touch him, to save him. My throat ached more.
“Whoa…hey…” he soothed.
“I think you blame her, too, deep down,” I whispered. “You tried to say more, but—”
“No! I wouldn’t have said that! I don’t blame her! Just because you dreamed it, doesn’t make it true.” But his eyes were conflicted. He wasn’t sure of anything. “Catherine, you have to forgive her.”
I shook my head and turned away from him. I heard him sigh behind me, but he didn’t press me. He knew I wasn’t there yet, and he was willing to accept me where I was. I looked down at the quote on the bridge. Someone had crossed out the word “dead” and scrawled “alive” next to it. Now it read:
God is dead. ALIVE. Where art thou Ubermensch?
“J.C.,” he said, distracted. “That kid’s a true believer.”
I looked up questioningly, but he just motioned for me to keep following him.
He was right. The view from the cliff was beautiful. Azure sky. Crisp, clear sunshine. Everything below us—the trees, the park benches, the boulders—they all wore mounded caps of snow. Rippled ice clung to the edges of the river, reflecting the sunlight brilliantly. Someone had even decorated the bridge railings with evergreen garland and red bows.
I picked my way down to the ledge and rested my back and head against the cold damp cliff. My head was starting to ache along with my throat. I really needed to get some sleep.
Michael looked at me worriedly. “You do feel warm today.”
I swiveled my head to the right and said, “It’s this stupid coat.” But I was too tired to take it off.
He reached out and touched his fingertips to my bandaged hand, and it filled with soothing vibrations. I turned it palm up and held it out to him, and he traced the crease of my palm with his thumb.
“Stitches?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Let me see,” he instructed, twirling his index finger around above the bandage. I unwrapped my hand, and he counted the stitches.
“They did a nice job. So…what the hell did you tell the doctor?” he wondered, the corners of his lips turning up.
“I didn’t go to the doctor. That was the night I had the blowout with my mom and they took Mina to the hospital. Jason was there.” I shuddered, remembering how awful it had been. “He sort of…”
“Sort of what?”
“Um…he uh…kept me from…taking a swing at my mom.” Michael laced his fingers above his head and blew out sharply through his mouth. Stupid…I shouldn’t have told him that. “And then he stitched me up,” I went on matter-of-factly, trying to change the subject.
“Jason stitched you up?” he exclaimed. I guess it didn’t seem that strange to me anymore.
I nodded.
“When is he taking them out?” he wanted to know.
“We’re sort of not speaking to each other either.”
Michael shook his head in exasperation. “And why is that?”
I was quiet, and my heartbeat sped up. He waited.
“I can’t give him what he wants,” I murmured softly and turned my gaze out over the cliff.
“And what is that?”
I looked down at my feet. “Just leave it alone, okay?”
“Okay. Fine. Whatever. But Catherine…you have to have the stitches taken out, or they’ll, like, get infected. Believe me. I’ve gotten enough stitches to know.”
“I thought they would just, you know, dissolve or something,” I said, looking down at the eight perfect little knots.
“No. These won’t,” he said, his brows pulling together. “Wrap it back up and keep it clean.” He looked out over the cliff while I bound my hand back up. When I was finished, he dropped his chin slightly and shook his head a few times. He was worried about a lot of things today.
“And your grandmother?” he wondered softly, his gray eyes still focused on the gorge.
“…will be dead in a few months. She’s back home. It’s…” My voice caught, and I felt the now familiar pressure of tears behind my eyes.
He turned to face me. “It’s what?”
“Just…hard…”
He nodded and looked down at his hands, murmuring under his breath, “You shouldn’t be fighting with your mom right now.”
I shot him a stubborn, “stay out of it” look. I didn’t want to talk about it. He was quiet for a while. Then he pointed across me to the deep hollow at the base of the wind-ravaged oak tree that was keeping us company on the ledge.
“J.C. left your letters here for me,” he said quietly. “Will you read them to me? The whole guy voice and Hispanic accent thing didn’t quite do it for me.” Despite my black mood, I had to suppress a laugh as I imagined what that must have sounded like, and then I found the letters in a clear plastic bag, anchored by a rock just inside the tree. They were ragged and a little damp, but still legible. I looked up at Michael, and he inched closer to me and nodded. I cleared my throat.
Michael,
What to say…I’m grounded. I guess you figured that. I screwed up. I didn’t think far enough ahead o
f my temper to realize it would keep me away from you. I’m such a stupid idiot. Needless to say, things really suck at home right now. I wish I could move into the woods with you. Maybe I could get a tent? My grandmother is in the hospital, and they’re not sure if she’ll make it. My mom’s never here, which is probably a good thing. Michael, listen to me, I’ll come back for you. I come back in my mind every day. 100 times a day. Please wait for me. Don’t give up hope. I know God has a plan for you. We just don’t know what it is yet. I’ll be there as soon as I can.
Love, Catherine
P.S. Don’t worry about me. I’m okay.
I looked up to see Michael’s reaction. He was grinning softly to himself.
“A tent?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
“I was pretty desperate,” I admitted.
“Mmm…” he said and then nodded toward the next one. I looked down at it and swallowed hard. The ache in my throat flared. It had been longer since I’d seen him when I wrote the second letter, and my emotions had poured themselves unfiltered onto the page. I was suddenly self-conscious.
Dear Michael,
I am amazed and confused that J.C. senses your presence in the woods. But I won’t complain. Knowing you’re still there and waiting for me makes everything else bearable. He gave me a bottle of Higher Dior. I keep it in my sock drawer. It smells like you. Cici says that’s how I smell whenever I came home from “Jai Ho.” She seems to sense your presence, too, then. I guess a little bit of you rubs off on me whenever we’re together. The doctors say my grandmother will be coming home soon…coming home to die. But they say her death is still a ways off. Several months maybe. I don’t want to be here when it happens.
It’s only six days until Christmas, and when I light my Advent candles this Sunday, I will pray for you. There is light in you. It’s there, and it’s burning bright.
I’ll come on Christmas Eve, even if I have to snow shoe or hire a reindeer. Wait for me. Please wait for me. I don’t think I can live without you.
Love, Catherine
I stuffed the letters back in the bag, shoved them back under the rock inside the tree hollow where he could see them, and then wrapped my arms around my knees. I looked away from him, my cheeks flaming, my ears roaring with the sound of my own mortification. Had I really ended my letter like that?
I didn’t know he’d moved until he was crouched down in front of me, up on his toes, pale and wavering against the blue sky backdrop. His heels were hanging over the edge of the snow packed cliff, but I wasn’t afraid for him. I knew what he was.
“Did I ever tell you that you’re amazing?” he asked, his voice winding around me like soft gauze. I looked back into his eyes and nodded but didn’t say anything, because inside I was trembling. He reached out hesitantly and trailed his feather-light fingertips through the small curls that framed my forehead and then down across my face. Gentle static followed them through my cheekbones.
“Your cheeks are so cold,” he murmured. He let his tingle tipped fingers travel lightly down the side of my neck and then sunk them down through the thick layers of my coat and sweater where they followed the contour of my collarbone out to the tip of my shoulder, leaving a trail of goose bumps behind.
“Warmer…” he murmured, a small crease forming between his brows. And I was warmer. I flushed hot from head to toe, and his lips turned up slightly. He let his fingertips roll over the edge of my shoulder and travel down the outside of my arm, which was still tightly wrapped around my knees, and then down past my wrist. I extended my index finger to give his fingertips something to kick off. They made the leap from my fingertip to the base of my calf and then he worked them upward through my jeans toward the tender back of my knee where they drifted back and forth. He leaned in closer.
“Very…very…warm…” he observed, and I had to close my eyes against the rush of heat that flooded my veins. This was insane. If I was amazing, then he was unbelievable, a ghost in my world, touching me. I wanted to reach out and touch him back. I wanted to follow the sweat slick contours of his arms and chest, the strong line of his jaw, the intricate architecture of his hands, but that wasn’t possible, and it wasn’t fair.
“Michael, I—”
“Shh…” he said, ending his fingertip odyssey on my lips where they explored the curves and valleys they found there. I opened my eyes to find his waiting for me, and they were filled with longing.
I knew how Meri felt then, when Finn touched her. I knew Michael loved me, too.
“Hot,” I whispered simply.
“Freaking freezing,” he responded, grinning, still tracing the bow of my lips with his fingers.
“Hot,” I insisted and released my grip on my knees and leaned forward between them with my hands on my icy boots. He tipped his body in toward me and anchored his free hand against the cliff behind my head, then tilted his head to the side and met me half way, brushing his weightless lips against mine. My entire face tingled under waves of hot static, and I closed my eyes and pressed forward to respond, wanting those full lips crushing mine, but there was nothing to respond against, and I started to fall…
“Catherine!” he cried, and I jerked my head back reflexively, startled.
“Christ! Don’t forget about the cliff!” His chest heaved, and he rubbed the back of his neck viciously with his right hand. And then he was gone. Shit. He’d pissed himself off again.
I waited, and when he didn’t show back up, I climbed up to the clearing above the cliff and found him sitting with his back against a tree, hugging his knees to his chest, contemplating his mangled bare toes with intense interest. I sank down next to him and tilted my head over in front of his face.
“I love you, Michael,” I whispered.
“Love what? Love this?” he growled, thrusting out his arms and hands to display the angry lacerations and raw fingernails that my mind had blocked out recently. I didn’t see them anymore. I just saw Michael.
“Yes,” I soothed and reached out with my fingertips to brush them across his unearthly torn skin.
He pulled his arms away.
“There is light in you. I saw it when we overlapped. When I opened my eyes.”
He looked over at me plaintively. “Where the hell does your faith come from anyway? Where does J.C.’s? You with your church and your prayers and your stupid candles. How can you be so sure with so much…shit in the world?” He turned away from me, whispering, “So many empty promises.”
I looked helplessly up at the slivers of sky that peeked through the pines, resigned to the fact that our winter heat wave was over. He needed something else from me now. He needed my faith, but I feared mine wasn’t strong enough. I wondered for the hundredth time why this task had fallen to me.
“Church? My parents? I don’t know,” I stammered. “I have my doubts, too.”
Tell him about the music!
I bit my frozen lower lip.
“No!” He pointed at me angrily. “You’re holding out on me! I can feel it.” I forgot who I was talking to.
“You’ll laugh,” I said, sticking my chin out.
“I won’t,” he said, equally defensive. Crap. He would laugh. He’d laughed before. But even as I protested, I knew I’d tell him. I couldn’t keep anything hidden from him.
“Music,” I said.
“Music?” He looked disappointed. “You mean like church music?”
“No…” I groaned. It really sounded stupid when I thought about saying it out loud. He waited.
“I have a Playlist. Okay?” I took a deep breath and then went on bravely. “I think of it as God’s Playlist. It’s a list of songs I’ve heard when I felt like I just couldn’t take anymore, songs that played when I needed to hear them the most, as if they were played just for me. Most of the time they remind me that God’s there, somewhere, keeping an eye on me. They’re like…a lifeline.”
I looked over at him to find a blank look on his face. At least he wasn’t laughing. He looked sideways for a second,
thinking about what I’d said, and then he said, “Like ‘Hope Bleeds?’ I thought we agreed that was me. That song and the dreams and—”
“No. You agreed. I still think ‘Hope Bleeds’ and the dreams were God’s way of telling me He wanted me to help you, or He wanted me to know that you wanted me to help you. But you wouldn’t buy into that, remember?”
Michael thought about that for a moment. Then he fired back, “What about my ax-toting freak memory then?”
“I don’t know where that one came from,” I mumbled, still confused by that.
“Aha!” Michael cried. “See! It was me! Your friendly, neighborhood evil—”
I glowered at him, and his eyes started to roll, but he caught himself.
“Okay, then,” he said, trying to keep his voice and lips steady. “Besides ‘Hope Bleeds,’ how many songs on God’s Playlist?”
I let my eyes go steely. “Ten or twelve. I’ve lost count.”
His lips twitched like he was going to smile, but he turned his face away for a second and then looked back, still completely serious. I had to give him props for trying anyway. “And they would be?”
Which should I start with? Which one was I willing to share? I decided on a lighter one.
“Okay…um…on the first day of school, I was worried because I wanted to break up with Jason. Only I’d pushed him in the pool for—”
“You pushed him in the pool? He’s like, twice as big as you!”
“He didn’t see me coming,” I mumbled. Then Michael did laugh.
“I told you, you’d laugh! Forget it!” I crossed my arms over my chest.
He held his hand up. “Hey! Not fair! I didn’t laugh at your Playlist, I laughed at the thought of you pushing Jason in the pool. What’d he do?”
“He was holding hands with Kara,” I huffed.
“Okay…” he said, obviously amused by my flare of temper. He straightened his face with effort and said, “Finish your story then.”
“Anyway…everyone was talking about me, and I was really upset about it, and this song came on the radio, ‘Turn the Page.’ It—”
The Guardian's Playlist Page 29