All We Left Behind (34 page)

I drop the buttons into my cup holder, counting each
shell-colored snap as it glints in the morning sun. They're tiny as pearls and deserve more than this plastic holding place. But I want them here, next to me. To remind me.

To remind me of the apology that I will give, which will never be enough. Of how the quiet doesn't discriminate. Of what I'm capable of, and how I've already been given my second chance. Of how sometimes all you're left with are seven small buttons.

Dad walks with me through
the two silver front doors. At the desk we check in with the nurse, and she gets her keys. The place is nice. A little like a cheesy hotel with bad art. But I'm not going to complain.

The nurse leads us down the hall and looks back curiously at the cases I'm carrying. One in each hand. But she doesn't say anything. When we get to 15B, she knocks before letting herself in.

“Josie?” she sings. “Josie, you've got visitors.”

There isn't much inside the room. A twin bed. Some furniture. A few of Josie's things. All I care about is that this room has
her
in it.

Josie comes out from behind a kitchenette and smiles. She's looking better. Her hair is thin and that tooth's still gone, but her skin has color. They let her go shopping so her clothes are new, and today she's wearing something flowery and yellow. It makes her look like spring.

“Is that what I think it is?” she says, eyeing me, and I nod. “But why two?”

I lift up the guitar cases and put them on her bed, and run a hand over the brown leather of the one on the left.

“Because this one's for you.”

She frowns at me.

“I don't play.”

I undo the latch and the smell of sour opens with the case. It's a dark smell, but I like that it's in there. It's what Mom smelled like and I don't want to forget it. I pull out the guitar with its red wood and I hand it to her.

She shakes her head, not sure she can take it, but I insist. Finally she gives in and takes it reverently, sitting at the edge of the bed and cradling it in her lap. She runs a finger over the strings and they let out a small whispering sound.

“You're giving me Mom's?” she says quietly as I unlatch my own guitar.

“No,” I say. “I'm giving you
yours
.”

Her eyes go soft, and I think of all the times she lingered behind that window screen, watching Mom and me making songs without her. How I knew she wanted to be out there with us, but we never gave her the chance.

“I don't play,” she repeats.

“That's okay,” I say, sitting down beside her and moving her hands to show her how to hold it. I tilt her hand so she can strum, so she can hear the music, and we can find a way to get through this alongside each other. Because the music isn't going to save us, but it
will
give us a reason to spend time together. And that's the part we need.

“Mom taught me how to play on this guitar,” I say, lining her fingers up with the strings. “And now, I'm going to teach you.”

*  *  *

I watch Marion in the hallway. I watch her every day. Watch her get out of her car, put her books away, talk to Lilith. We haven't spoken, but I know she sees me.

I make a point to walk past her. Catch her eye. Brush my hand against hers. I'm here. She knows I'm here. Even if she doesn't need me. I'm watching.

If I've learned anything from Josie, it's that I can't look away. So I don't. But it's also not my choice. I can't save her. I can only make sure she knows I'm here, and I see.

I can read Marion's eyes now. And there's something in them that says she just needs space.

So I find her. I touch her hand. And I find her again the next day.

I remember her standing in the trees after she cried in my car, that first time on the ridge. She stared into the forest wanting to walk into the dark, and I didn't know how to take her hand and walk her through it.

But I do now. Uncomfortable as it is. I just am a presence, touching her hand, every day. Letting her know she's not alone. And when she's ready, if she's ever ready, she'll walk back to me.

It's afternoon and I'm walking
to class. The sun flares and I look up to see Kurt down the hall eclipsed in light. For a second, all I see is gold and I'm not sure if it's actually him.

But then there's a quiet brush against the back of my hand.

I turn from the glare and he's there, not saying anything. His knuckles brush mine, he gives me a sideways smile, and I'm about to go my way—

And he go his—

When I take his hand.

I squeeze it, and he squints, not sure what to make of me.

“Firm handshake, remember?” I say, not letting go, and he smiles.

“You were always surprising,” he says, but there's sadness in his eyes.

Dust fills the sunlight between us and suddenly I am certain that nothing—not even a ribbon of light—is ever
clean. Everything is full of tiny particles. Full of skin, and dirt, and sand. But it is that dust that shows us the invisible. It is the dust that creates the shape of the air.

I squeeze his hand tighter and nod to the hallway door.

“Will you . . . ,” I start, leading him to come with me. “Outside? Away from all of this.” I nod to escape the buzz around us, the hallway, the people, the roaming stares.

He shifts toward the door and follows me outside, where I kick off my shoes and walk through the frozen grass to the trees. I keep his hand in mine the whole time, until I find a tall sturdy maple. Its branches low enough to climb.

“Marion?” He looks at me confused, and I test a branch to make sure it can bear my weight. The bark is rough and cold against my fingers. I climb onto the first bough, getting a firm grip before leaning back and extending a hand to him.

“Come up,” I say.

The breeze flirts with his hair, spins it in tiny spirals, and he looks so cautious and unsure.

“Remember being a kid?” I say. “When the best thing in the world was climbing a tree? When nothing seemed more scary, or challenging, or important?”

He looks past me at the branches above, naked and reaching for the sky, having shed all of their autumn stars.

“Remember how everything looked completely different from up there? Only it's still the same landscape, except you can see farther.”

His cheeks relax into a smile and he takes my hand. We
climb. Fast, careful, beside each other, our feet and hands weaving over silver branches and pulling us higher as we head for the sky.

We don't look down.

The branches grow slim and we have to balance, toe to toe, close to each other to keep our gravity centered near the trunk. And the sun touches every branch. Every inch of bark and skin.

When we reach the top, the branches are so thin there seems to be nothing but air beneath us. It's the point where there's nothing left but to trust the fragile whispers of these limbs. Trust or let them snap beneath us.

I tell him.

I tell him everything, like I told my father and Lilith. And when I do my lungs open up, like the wings of a butterfly, learning to catch the lightness of flight. And I don't tell him because I want us to be together, but because he needs to see me for real, and know who I am. And then he can decide what he wants. If he even wants to be friends.

We sit in the tree and he tells me about his sister. Tells me how she OD'd, and that he's teaching her guitar. We cling to the delicate twigs and find words, no matter how difficult. No matter how spare. And I close my eyes and feel the touch of the sun. And for a moment it feels like the water can no longer touch me, and all around me there is nothing but air—

And air—

And air.

So much love goes to the two ladies who loved this book from the very beginning: my editor, Sara Sargent, and my agent, Melissa Sarver White. Thank you for believing in me and this story. Along with them, I want to thank the amazing staff at Simon Pulse and Folio for your support of
All We Left Behind
.

I will forever be indebted to the teachers who've helped me hone my craft. I'd still be struggling to find Kurt and Marion's voices without the classes, mentorship, and compassionate criticism of Amanda Jenkins, Shelley Tanaka, Mary Quattlebaum, Laura Kvosnosky, Ross Brown, and Patty Meyer.

I could not imagine a more supportive and brilliant community than the students, faculty, and alumni of the Vermont College of Fine Arts. Particularly my Dystropians. I love you all, and yes, it's happening!

I also want to thank everyone who read snippets, drafts, and revisions of this project. This book was shaped immensely by the insights of Sheryl Scarborough, Melle Amade, Steve Bramucci, and Ellen Regan.

Thank you to my parents for always supporting me, even when I chose a career in writing, or I dyed my hair hot pink. And lastly, a big shout-out to my rock, Russell Gearhart, for his patience, love, and unwavering belief in me.

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition December 2015

Text copyright © 2015 by Ingrid Sundberg

Jacket photograph copyright © 2015 by Getty Images/Tara Moore

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Sundberg, Ingrid.

All we left behind / by Ingrid Sundberg. — First Simon Pulse hardcover edition.

p. cm.

Summary: “Marion is hiding a secret from her past and Kurt is trying to figure out how to recover from his mother's death as they both find solace in each other.” —Provided by publisher.