Some Kind of Happiness (35 page)

Four kids, drinks, a bonfire. Out in the forest where they weren't supposed to be. A celebration of forgetting their problems for a while.

(I understand these things.)

An overgrown house, hidden in the trees.

A man who had a family, and then did not.

A melted bicycle, a shoe belonging to Cynthia Travers.

The knife? Maybe it fell from someone's pocket. Maybe it was knocked out of the house when the firefighters arrived.

Dad, watching it all happen. And after, maybe wanting to talk about it. Maybe wanting to tell the truth.

And this is why, isn't it? This is why no one talks about him, why he left, why I am only now meeting my family.

Because he wanted to tell their secrets.

Grandma and Grandpa Hart, hiding it all so no one would see. Paying the right people. Spinning stories and lies and smiles.

That is the truth, the real truth, of the Everwood.

•  •  •

“So that's it,” I say into the silence. “That's what happened.”

Stick, Aunt Dee, and Kennedy are crying. Mr. Bailey seems like he might be about to. Cole holds Bennett. Avery looks like if she breathes too hard, she will shatter.

Jack watches me. I think he is waiting for me to make the next move.

“How could you do that?” Gretchen blurts out.

(I know how.)

WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A HART

• You must make the world see you as you want to be seen.

Something inside me detonates. I want to hit something or run somewhere or cry until I can't anymore.

I want to say I hate them. I want to yell and scream and spit and kick.

But I can't do that, because I don't.

I still love them.
I love them.

This realization has been coming to me in pieces over the summer, but now it rushes at me, fully formed.

(Now? Now, after what I have learned?)

(Yes. Now.)

I love my family.

I love Aunt Bridget, because her heartbeat sounds like mine.

I love Aunt Dee, because she was the first one to say she loves me, too.

I love Stick, because I am her coolest niece, and she belongs to my Gretchen.

I love Grandpa, because he dresses old-fashioned, and he built us a tree patio, and he talked to Dad when no one else would.

I even love Grandma, because she slept beside me, and I see the person she is trying to be.

They are mine, and I am theirs.

We are Harts. It's in the blood.

But it isn't fair, what they have done. It isn't fair that I love them. I shouldn't love people like that.

But . . . people like
what
? They were only kids, my aunts and Mr. Bailey. They were afraid.

And Grandma and Grandpa, they were also afraid—for their children, and for their own sorry, wonderful selves.

I cannot stop imagining Avery doing something like that, and hating herself, and living with the horrible fact of it forever.

I cannot stop imagining what I would have done, if instead of my aunts and Mr. Bailey it had been me and my cousins.

What would
we
have done?

Would we have been the same? Would we have allowed such secrets, to protect one another? The queen and her companions, bound through the power of the Everwood.

What would we have done?

I think about it, a hot bubble building inside me.

Then I decide: We would not have done that. We would not have hidden what we had done.

What will happen to us all?

Maybe the divorce will be a good thing. If the Harts are arrested for keeping so many secrets, Dad will be locked up with the rest of them, and Mom and I can live alone and get stressed and eat cold pizza together.

Grandpa looks old and exhausted without all those words inside him. “So that's the truth,” he tells us. “I'm sorry, and . . . I don't know what else to say.”

“You hid what happened.” I have to say this out loud. Somehow I have to claw through it. “All of you did. You lied about it, for years—”

Grandma turns. “It isn't that simple, Finley—”

“No!
I'm
talking now.
Me.
” My ears turn hot and my skin tingles in waves. “You kept it secret. You paid Mr. Bailey to keep him quiet. You used your money and made sure no one would know. You scared my dad when he wanted to tell the truth. You scared him away, made him angry. That's why you fought.
You're
why I'm only just now visiting. Because you were scared. You were selfish, and you were cowards.”

Grandma and Grandpa stare at me like I have told them
the sky is falling, which I suppose it is, to them. Their perfect, cloudless, blue sky for miles.

“Aunt Bridget, Dee, Stick. Mr. Bailey,” I continued. “They didn't mean for that fire to go wrong, but it did, and you couldn't tell anyone because you couldn't let anyone know they'd messed up.”

Grandma holds her face stiff.

I am shouting now, clutching the chair in front of me. “All you care about is keeping everything beautiful and peaceful and perfect. But not everything is perfect. Not everything is happy and normal and nice. Not every house is Hart House. Do you get that? All of this is because of you. Without you, there wouldn't have been any secrets. I wouldn't have run away. Dex and Ruth wouldn't have come after me. It's your fault this happened. It's
your
fault.”

I cannot talk very well anymore. I feel like I could fly out of my skin. My throat hurts so much, I could throw up.

“It was an accident,” Grandma whispers. “It was just an accident.”

“Hiding it wasn't an accident.”

Grandma's eyes meet mine. They look empty, fuzzy, like she has just woken up. She sits in one of the polished chairs and looks too small in it, like a kid in a grown-up's chair.

Everyone is quiet, like they are waiting for whatever this thing is between me and Grandma to snap.

I sway on my feet; Avery helps me find a chair. She sits down and pulls me onto her lap. Her fingers are stained with
paint—hot pink and bright orange and forest green. She feels strong, like the kind of person you would want on your side.

She feels safe.

But I cannot relax yet.

What now? What will happen to all of us?

Aunt Dee is still crying; Stick is trying to help her. Mr. Bailey sits with his head in his hands.

Jack. Jack. Where is Jack?

Jack is passing out cookies—fresh ones, which makes me think Grandma was nervously baking until we all got home safely.

(Of course.)

I meet Jack's eyes.
Are we okay?

He crooks his finger, like a hook.

Pirate.

We are okay, he and I.

The rest of us—that is a less certain thing.

•  •  •

After that, I do not say much.

What is left to say?

I watch everyone mill around the kitchen. Hot chocolate for the kids, coffee for the grown-ups. Kennedy sniffles in Uncle Nelson's lap; he holds her like she is five instead of twelve. Gretchen cleans cups in the kitchen, wearing Grandma's washing gloves and scrubbing like a maniac.

I lean against Avery's shoulder and fall asleep and wake up
again. Someone brings me saltines, strokes my hair, brings a phone to my ear.

It's Mom.

Dad is getting their things together; they will arrive in Billington in the morning.

“Are you okay, sweetie? Finley, my baby Finley.”

“Mom, I'm not a baby.”

“I know, but you always will be to me.”

“Mom. I'm sorry I ran away.”

“I know you are. It's okay. We're going to be okay.”

Are we going to be okay? I want to say yes, but as I say good-bye to my mother and hang up the phone, I'm not sure.

The world is not a sure place anymore. Maybe it has never been. Maybe it has always been a mess—some kind of twisted, cosmic mess we can't possibly understand.

This room is full of snobs, secret-keepers, liars, and cowards. We hide our mistakes; we drink too much; we get scared and do things we are not proud of.

We feel sad even when it makes no sense to feel sad.

I hear people talking and lift myself up.

“Geoffrey.” Grandpa sits beside Mr. Bailey. “I'm sorry about all of this.”

“Don't be.” Mr. Bailey's voice is rough. “It was about time, wasn't it?”

Grandpa pauses. It looks like something inside him is fighting to get out. “I always wanted to . . . I don't know. Come out and confess. Tell the truth. But I didn't know how. I found my
grandkids playing with your boys, a few weeks ago.”

Mr. Bailey's eyes flick to me and back to Grandpa. “Jack told me.”

“It scared me.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Grandpa sighs and tugs his shirt straight. He holds out his hand, and Mr. Bailey grabs on.

“I guess this is the start of something,” Grandpa says.

“Warren,” says Mr. Bailey, sounding shaky, “I'm scared out of my mind.”

“Me too.”

Mr. Bailey gives him a sad smile. “I kind of like it. Feels nice.”

Grandpa passes him a fresh cup of coffee. “Feels like a beginning.”

I feel like telling them that this isn't starting tonight.

It started with us—with me, Gretchen, Kennedy, Dex, Ruth, Avery, Jack, Cole, and Bennett.

It started in the Everwood. We found the truth in those trees.

But I think they know that.

•  •  •

I fall asleep on the sofa in the sunroom. Rain trickles down the windows, pinging on the green glass roof like tiny birds' feet.

When I wake up, it takes me a moment to realize who is sitting at the kitchen table: Mr. Bailey. Aunt Dee and Stick. Grandma.

My chest tightens, but I keep my eyes cracked open. What now? What will Grandma say?

Aunt Dee whispers, “And then what? What will happen to us?”

“It doesn't matter,” says Grandma, her voice pure Hart. She sounds ready to clean attics and organize cities. “Finley was right. We've been selfish. All of us.”

Stick holds Grandma's hand tight. Everyone is quiet.

Mr. Bailey says, “She's a brave girl, Mrs. Hart.”

Grandma says, “You're right, Geoffrey. My Finley is a queen.”

Her Finley.
Hers.

On this couch I am weightless. I want to live inside this moment forever. Through the glass ceiling I see the clouds clearing away to reveal an ocean of stars.

Everyone at the kitchen table keeps talking, quietly, slowly. They are small, scared creatures trying to find their way.

I wonder if I will ever find mine.

T
HE NEXT TIME
I
WAKE
up, all the lights are off except one. Grandma is sitting alone at the kitchen table holding a coffee mug.

Sometimes I think whatever is wrong with me is wrong with Mom or Dad, too. Maybe it is a thing I will never be able to shake, because it comes straight from my bad cells.

Sometimes I think I must have done something terrible, or will do something terrible, to deserve such a fate. My sadness might be a punishment.

I wonder if Grandma thinks things like,
How many more cups of coffee will I have in this life? How long will the rest of my life be?

I wonder if she ever asks herself,
Is this cancer punishment for something I have done?

(For hiding an accident? For keeping secrets?)

Grandma catches me watching her. “Oh! You're awake.”

She comes toward me, pauses, looks around the room, goes to the kitchen, gets another coffee mug, starts making me hot chocolate.

I move to the table, sit, and wait. I feel like I should say something, but I do not know what that would be.

Grandma sits back down. I sip my hot chocolate and watch her face, but she does not meet my eyes.

Every tick of the clock above the sunroom doors is a crash in this silence.

“Not everything is perfect,” Grandma says softly. “Not everything is happy.”

It takes me a moment to realize that she is repeating what I screamed at her a few hours ago.

“Is that what you've been trying to tell me, Finley? All summer?”

Grandma clasps her hands tightly together and looks at me, waiting.

Everything around me—the whole world, my whole
life
—narrows down to this moment:

Grandma, in her peach-colored blouse, her pearls, her makeup not even smudged, even after everything that happened.

The clock, crashing away.

The soft light of the kitchen, the sky getting brighter outside, the hot chocolate steaming in front of me.

If I am a puzzle, this is the moment in which I find the first corner piece.

There is still a lot of work to do; I still have a thousand pieces of myself to fit into place. But everyone knows you're supposed to find the corners first. They are the beginning.

My family has found theirs, and I have just found mine.

All it took was someone else asking a question, making
me search for an answer I think I already knew.