I rip a piece of paper from the pad and grab a pen from my backpack. This is exactly what I spent my life trying to avoid—setting myself up for rejection. But now I suppose it’s better to feel the pain because it means I really loved. Sienna. My dad. I write it all out, the words I should have said.
I sign my name at the bottom, fold the paper, and tuck it into the padded envelope. I reach into my backpack and draw out the two silver dollars. I drop one coin inside the envelope, seal it, throw a bunch of stamps on the front, and then slip it into a mailbox as I walk back. Turning, I look at the riverfront—at River Street—one last time. Then I head for my motorcycle, dropping the second coin on the ground along the way, so maybe someone will find a silver dollar on River Street, like Sienna did.
I give Aunt Deb a hug Friday morning before I head back to St. Simons for the surgery. She invited my dad and me to dinner so many times I had to make the trip up here even if Dad declined. It’s hard for him to travel. I think Deb actually misses having me around, although I can’t imagine why.
“Come back now, you hear? Sunday dinners. Holidays. You can stay here anytime.”
“I wouldn’t miss a chance to eat a meal at your house, Aunt Deb,” I say and then kneel to Megan’s level. “Kiss, Megan?”
She steps behind her dad’s leg, bashful as usual. At the last minute, she darts around and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. Finally.
Aunt Debbie claps. Mark smiles as Megan runs into his arms.
I turn to Mark. He opens his mouth to say something but bites down. We’re thinking the same thing, and we both know it. If only we had my first football game on the fifth to look forward to, this wouldn’t be so hard. Mark was excited to drive down for it.
At last we settle for a hard pat on the arm, and I walk out the door. I sling my backpack over my shoulders and straddle my motorcycle.
“You’re going to throw it all away?”
I turn. Mark. He followed me out. It’s only me and him, and I see he’s finally spitting out what he’s kept behind tight lips the past few weeks.
“He’s my dad.”
Mark gives an unconvinced smile. “And he left you with nothing.”
I fiddle with my helmet. Thoughts of the surgery Monday morning, and the college football dream that will never be, claw their way to the surface. Things changed. I think about River Street again, about the girl I met who taught me what love really means. Football used to be everything. Now the thought of a life of football without Sienna in it, without my dad in it, is like staring down a dark tunnel with no end. She changed me, and if I had it to do all over again, I would still walk down River Street.
Finally I turn back. “Not all of us are lucky like Megan. He may have left me with nothing, Mark, but I’ll still give anything to save him.”
I pull my helmet on and drive away, leaving Savannah behind.
The sun shines. Thick summer leaves blow in the hot breeze. A baseball bat cracks against a ball in a nearby park, and a dad cheers as his son practices a run to first base. I drive through small-town St. Simons with an odd feeling I can’t quite explain, like a silent confidence in the future, regardless of the questions ahead.
I stop at Dad’s house and take off my helmet, humidity wrapping around me. This place, this island, is growing on me. Feels like home. Gusts of wind hit me, and the first signs of a storm hover in the sky. I twist the front door handle and find it locked. I knock. The thick air presses down on me. Brutal. A strange feeling settles in the longer I wait. Finally I start for the back door.
“Hey, Turbs.” I pat my leg, but he only whimpers in reply. Dusty won’t stop yapping. He jumps at my legs, then runs for the back door. Barks like crazy. Turbo buries his nose in the grass near his paw. Moans. My nerves twist as I watch them. Turbo’s gloomy eyes lock on mine. It’s impossible to miss: He’s trying to tell me something. Just like he tried to warn me that day my dad disappeared.
“Dad?” I call out after shoving the sliding door open. I start through the kitchen. “Dad?”
I hear his voice, thin and frail. “Austin?”
I move toward the sound, the living room, but he’s not in his recliner where he usually sits. I round the corner and find him on the floor.
My helmet slips from my fingers and crashes to the ground. “Dad!”
I run and kneel beside him, my heart launching punch after punch against my rib cage. His hand clutches the neckline of his shirt, his breathing freaking me out. Wheezy. Panting for air. “Dad, what’s wrong?”
“I . . . I . . .” he starts to say between heavy breaths. “Take the folder on the—”
I pull out my cell before he can finish.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher answers.
“I think my dad is having a heart attack. Or just had one,” I say, feeling my tongue tripping over the words. “We need a medic, now.”
I give her the address and my phone number. Dad pulls at my shirt for my attention. I try to answer the dispatcher’s questions, but my dad is so insistent, I finally ignore her.
This isn’t happening.
“Austin, Austin,” he says. His voice is so weak it scares me.
“Just wait, Dad.”
I toss my backpack aside, run into the kitchen, and yank a cabinet door open. I fumble the box of pills, and it crashes to the ground. Bottles tumble out and roll across the wood floor. I toss Benadryl, Pepto-Bismol, and Tylenol aside, finally finding the aspirin. I dart around the corner and twist the cap open.
“Austin,” he says again, his eyelids drooping. “On the cabinet. The folder.”
“No, Dad!” I don’t even glance in the direction he’s pointing. I don’t want to look at that stupid will. “You’re not giving up on me like this. The transplant, Dad. It’s Monday morning. Just a couple more days. You have to hold on.”
“Son,” he says, a weak smile outlining his wrinkled lips.
I wipe a dribble of spit away from his mouth and feel the sting of hot tears behind my eyes. “No,” I say. “It’s not too late.”
He heaves a deep breath. “It’s better thi—”
“No,” I cut him off, the word tying a knot inside my already throbbing throat. I should be feeling anxiety, grief, pain, and a dozen other emotions right now. But all I feel is guilt. I hold his head in my hands, and his outline becomes a watery blur: his once-dark hair now speckled with gray and his strong face wrinkled with age and sickness. But his blue eyes look as young as ever. These are the eyes I looked into as a kid while he bounced me on his knee, the eyes that smiled every time I caught a ball and cried with me when I got hurt. These are the eyes that watched me grow.
“Just hold on, Dad.” I’m not about to let myself fall apart, not now. “An ambulance is coming. The transplant. I can still save you.”
Dad smiles. “You’ve already done that, Austin.” He points to the envelope again with a determination I can’t ignore. “I only wish I woulda been there for you. You, your mother . . . nothing I ever done can make up for that failure.”
“You didn’t fail.”
He gives an unconvinced smile.
I look him in the eyes, making sure he’s looking into mine, too. “I love you, Dad.” My voice comes out strained, a sob so far from anything manly.
He breathes out. “I know. You have courage I never had. Courage to love with everything you got. That right there is enough for me to know you’ll be all right.”
The faint sound of a siren blends with the distant rumble of thunder. His hand trembles as he points to the leather-bound book on the side table. I pick it up. His Bible. I didn’t even ask him about his church; all the attention these past few weeks was on me. So many questions I didn’t ask.
Dad takes several deep breaths, his lips slack. “This isn’t the end, Austin.”
The sirens steadily grow louder, but not fast enough.
“You’re right, Dad. It’s not,” I say. I steady the open bottle of aspirin in his palm. “I’ll get yo
u some water. We’re going to get you to the hospital.”
I fill a glass with water. He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. I won’t let myself think otherwise. But a clatter from the living room tears down my pointless reassurance. I turn. Pills dot the floor at my dad’s side. An empty aspirin bottle teeters in his limp hand. Water rushes down the drain as I stare, and with a grief that nearly crushes me, I know.
Everything happens in a daze. The ambulance, medics rushing to my dad, and the proclamation of his death I try not to hear. People come and go: police, medics. I answer what I can, but when everything is said and done, the whole day feels surreal, like it didn’t happen. It couldn’t have.
Thick clouds cover the sky outside, making this house of laughter, light, and rekindled memories dark and strangely foreign.
My dad is gone.
I study the carpet where I found him earlier this afternoon. My backpack, the Bible, and a few pills lie on the ground. I wonder what would have happened had I not been here, had I never followed the address Sienna gave me. How long would he have lain here before someone found him?
Surely someone would have come. But the more I think about it, the more I realize what a lonely life my dad lived. Will anyone come to his funeral? If so, will they feel sadness or nothing more than pity, as though the death of a druggie is wholly expected? Even deserved?
Everyone wants a friend. I recall my own words to Sienna, something I’ve always believed, that people are genuinely good, decent. I’m finding that hard to believe now.
I cross the dark room and pick up the envelope, finally opening it. I sift through the stack of papers: a last will and testament, bank statements, titles and trusts, my dad’s marriage and divorce certificates. He even has instructions on his burial: a funeral home, a prepaid plot in a cemetery, even a prepaid casket. It seems unlike him to have planned this all out so carefully, and it makes me regret, once again, how little I knew about my dad.
Lastly, I find a small envelope with the words FOR AUSTIN penned across the front. I tear it open and read:
Austin,
I’m watching you through the window now. We just got back from a walk on the beach, and you’re mowing the lawn. You don’t know what these past couple weeks have meant to me. Walking the dogs, talking about old times, seeing you smile. You showing up on my doorstep was nothing less than a gift from God, and for that miracle I’ll always be grateful.
If you’ve opened this letter, it means I’m gone. You’ll find my will and other documents with this letter. I don’t have much, but what I have is yours. About $30,000 in Wells Fargo bank. The house is yours, too. It’s paid off, so do what you want with it. Hold on to it, sell it, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re happy, that you do the things in life that’ll give you no reason to go looking back and regretting.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Austin. I promise, all along I thought I was doing what was best for you, but now I realize I made another mistake. Big surprise. I should have been there to watch you play ball. I should have been there to see you graduate. I should have been there for so many things I wasn’t, and I wish I could make it all up to you. Just know that while you’re on the field of life, even though you can’t see me in the crowd, I’m cheering you on.
I love you, son.
Dad
I hold the letter in my hand, reluctantly realizing what this means. Thirty thousand dollars? A house? After working, scrimping, and saving for the money that disappeared with the blink of an eye to pay Turbo’s vet bills and the repairs on Jesse’s café, this is unreal. Thirty thousand dollars, no transplant, and my football scholarship still in place. It’s everything I ever dreamed of—independence, money, football. My dad was right. The pieces fell into place.
The documents crumple in my fist. I slam them down on the coffee table, but it doesn’t feel like enough. I want to tear them up. Burn them. Thirty thousand dollars, a house, a football scholarship, and every other dream that used to mean everything to me . . . I’d trade it all, if only my dad could come to one game.
I walk to the front door and yank it open. He’s gone. I stand on the porch, swaying like a battered palm tree in the wind. A drop of rain hits my cheek. A few beachgoers hustle down the street away from the ocean. The faint sounds of St. Simons drift toward me on the wind, the outside world seeming to go on as though this is any other day.
He’s gone, I think over and over, as though repetition will somehow dull this harsh reality. The urge to escape drives me to my motorcycle, and I take off. Where to, I have no idea. All I know is I can’t stay here. Rain sprinkles down, cool and refreshing, but it stings my face the faster I drive.
If life is meant to be lived with no regrets, then I’ve learned one thing: You’ve never fully lived until you give your all, and you haven’t given your all until you give a part of yourself.
But none of that matters now. I gave everything, and it was all for nothing. I have more regrets now than ever. A cold shudder trickles down my spine, but warmth flickers within at the thought that maybe there’s one thing I can mend before it becomes a regret. I don’t have to lose Sienna, not for good. Rain washes over me as well as the reassurance of this thought, easing the pain.
Water pools in low spots on the road. I snap to and see that I’m drenched. It’s one of those times when you realize you’re driving and yet you can’t recall anything about the past several minutes. I refocus on the road a fraction too late. A car peels out onto the main road, obviously not seeing me. I should have seen this coming. I brake as the inevitable consequence flashes through my mind and paralyzing shock knifes through my veins.
I turn, trying to dodge the car without skidding. But it’s not enough.
It’s too late.
I hear the screech of the car’s brakes, the flash of headlights blinding me. The last two thoughts to cross my mind are of Sienna and the sickening realization that I’m not wearing my helmet.
CHAPTER 44
Sienna
The line between dreams and reality is getting foggy. Even my seizures seem to have stopped, ending the rewinds that took me back to Austin. Now that I’ve finally put the accident behind me, will I ever have a seizure again?
Time is the key. Just as the ache at the loss of my dad ebbed over the past year, the memory of Austin will subside. Whether I want it to or not.
I walk through our empty home one last time, through the backyard and the unkempt garden, barren places that echo with memories. I’m moving on, finally. Everything is how it should be, but even as I tell myself this, I know it’s bogus.
I step back inside. Mom finishes a conversation on her cell, wearing a smile a mile wide like she won a cruise.
“What’s up?”
She breathes out a sigh of relief. She’s already calling another number on her cell. “I can’t believe it. It must have been Gary. Gary must have done it.”
“What? What did Gary do?”
“The café,” Mom says, as though I should have caught on already. She holds the cell to her ear and looks at me. “The damages are paid for! There won’t even be a lawsuit. Gary told me it would all work out. He told me not to worry. Still, I never imagined he’d step in and . . . Gary?” she says, her attention snatched away as Gary answers. She gives a grateful yet slightly embarrassed smile, as though he is standing right in front of her. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
I consider what this means. Any money at this point helps. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hard on Gary, should have been nicer to the guy. He obviously cares for my mom.
Mom listens to a reply I can’t hear, her brow furrowing. “You know what I’m talking about,” she says. “The café? The burned balcony? Th-the damages are . . . paid.”
Mom falls silent. I wonder what Gary could be saying on the other end.
“Uh,” Mom says, her mouth hanging open. It’s not like Mom to use uh, or any other filler sound that would make her seem unsure of herself. “Well, yes. I just got the ca
ll. That café owner won’t be pressing charges.”
A brief pause.
“Yes, someone stepped in and . . . paid for the damages.” Color rushes to my mom’s cheeks, and I can tell she regrets her hasty assumption. Big time. Her eyes roll upward, searching the heavens as her mouth forms the silent word why. “I apologize. This is completely my fault.” She pauses as though Gary cut her off. “No, no. Gary, you are so sweet. You’ve done so much for me already.”
The rest of the conversation is uncomfortable, to say the least. She hangs up the phone and suddenly looks all white like a ghost when she turns to face me. Poor Mom. More than awkward.
“I don’t know,” I say, addressing the question on both of our minds. “Maybe Brian’s parents?”
Some of the color returns to Mom’s face. “Yes, maybe. Why—why—didn’t I think of that before?” she says and pulls her cell back up to eye level. Brian’s dad—Don Lewis, the wealthy doctor so generously involved with the community in Georgia—has plenty of money, and he’s just the kind of guy who would do something like this.
“Hi, Judy,” Mom says when Judy answers. This time, she treads carefully into the topic of the café’s paid-for damages. She has the phone on speaker mode so I can hear.
“I have no idea,” Mom says after Judy tells us that it is as much of a mystery to her as it is to us. She tells Judy all about her ill-fated phone call to Gary, and Judy commiserates with her.
The news of the paid-for damages is such a distraction, we don’t shed a tear as we leave our house for the last time. Spencer snags what’s left of the mail, and together we head to Brittney’s reception. Mom sits behind the wheel, deep in thought. I surf the Internet on my iPhone, finding myself on sites like weather.com and Expedia, checking the temperature in Savannah and prices on airplane tickets to Florida I’ll never buy.
Rewind to You Page 25