The Way Back to You (15 page)

“That covers just about everyone,” I say.

“But not gift-basket bringers. So we’re in luck.”

Cloudy rings the bell. After about thirty seconds, the door flies open, revealing a guy maybe around Cloudy’s height (5’5”) and my dad’s age (51). It isn’t like we woke him up or anything (he’s dressed in slacks and a collared shirt like he’s on his way to hit golf balls), so I can’t begin to guess why his face is scrunched up like he’s just downed a shot of vinegar.

Cloudy puts on her best cheer smile as she moves her sunglasses
back to the top of her head. “Good morning!”

The man’s voice is stern as he nods toward his warning sign. “Before we go any further, did you read this?”

I clear my throat. “We did.”

His eyes bore through mine. “And do
you
understand that I will slam this door
in a heartbeat
if you’re here for any of what’s listed?”

“We’re here to deliver a prize,” Cloudy says, holding out the basket with a smile.

The man peers at it from his side of the threshold, but doesn’t take it. “A prize for what?”

“It was a raffle drawing,” she says. “The winner is Freddie Blackwell. Is that you?”

“Yes. My wife must have entered me, but I don’t drink coffee.” He calls over his shoulder,
“Bettie!”

Now we have an answer as to whether this particular recipient has inherited Ashlyn’s iced-coffee habit. I’m not sure what else we’ll learn, but I’m not spotting anything about him right off that’s Ashlyn-like—except his size. Which makes sense, I guess. Only someone with a small body could get enough oxygen using lungs that had belonged to another small person.

I try to catch Cloudy’s eye, but she’s staring straight ahead. Her cheer smile has vanished.

When Freddie turns to us again, he has the decency to soften his expression and his voice. “I’m sorry. What organization did you kids say you’re with again?”

“We’re not,” I tell him.

“Then who sent you to deliver this?”

“Oh,” Cloudy says. “I think . . . the card’s in the car.”

She thrusts the basket at me and rushes off in search of an imaginary card, leaving me alone with Freddie. I consider dropping the basket at his feet and getting the hell off his property without another word, but then he’s joined at the door by a platinum-haired woman who’s even shorter than he is.

She smiles up at me. “What’s this?”

“Apparently, you put in my name to win coffee,” Freddie explains.

Bettie reaches for the basket, so I let her take it.

“I put in
your
name?” She examines their “prize” through the plastic. “That doesn’t sound like something I’d do. Not for delicious coffee and chocolates. I’d want to make sure they went to someone who appreciates them. Like myself, for instance. Look at this chocolate caramel bar. Yum!”

Freddie shrugs. “The girl he has with him said it was specifically for Freddie.”

“Oh, you know what?” I say. “This was one of the runner-up gifts. The raffle was done through a hospital. I’m, um, not sure which one, but maybe only patients could win? The grand prize was a trip to anywhere in the world.”

For a millisecond, Bettie’s eyes go glassy, like she’s trying to puzzle out whether a teenager hand-delivering a basket in Southern California could possibly be aware of the other prizes some unknown Oregon hospital had up for grabs nearly six months ago. But then she smiles. “Oh, yes. Freddie was in the hospital last year. I think I remember signing up for something in the cafeteria. I spent a lot of time there to keep from pacing
holes in the waiting room floor during his surgery. We’re actually headed Down Under to Australia and New Zealand in March for our pearl anniversary. That’s thirty years! We’d sure have loved to win the trip for free, but thank you for bringing this by.”

“No problem. And congratulations on . . . everything.”

Freddie looks past me. “Your girlfriend doesn’t have to round up the card. Or do you think she’s taking her time because she doesn’t like me?”

“That wouldn’t surprise me in the least.” Bettie laughs. “He’s such an ogre when people drop by. We moved here from Portland, Oregon. He survived all the rain and living on an oxygen tank for years, but he still hasn’t recovered from dealing with the door-to-door salesmen.”

“Relentless little pricks.” Freddie nods toward his sign. “They don’t care what you post or what you say to them. They call it ‘freedom of speech’ and felt very free to pound on my door all day until I could manage to drag myself over to answer it.”

Bettie grins at me. “He forgets that in this town, we’re among the young people. Especially Freddie, now that he’s had a double lung transplant. He’s turning fifty-six next month, but his donor was only sixteen. So he has sixteen-year-old lungs.”

I can’t help it—my gaze goes straight to Freddie’s chest. He referred to Cloudy as my girlfriend a minute ago and I didn’t bother correcting him; we’re never going to see him again. But it’s incredible that he’s breathing
right now
through the lungs of the only girlfriend I’ve ever had.

“Sounds like the surgery was a success, then?” I ask. “I mean,
no more oxygen tank. That’s got to feel good.”

“No more oxygen tank,” Bettie says. “No more constant fear that my husband and I won’t get to grow old together. The transplant changed everything for us.
Everything
. We never could have taken our Australia trip otherwise.” She rests her head on Freddie’s shoulder as he wraps one arm around her. “And he’s doing so well he’s going to run a marathon in two weeks.”

“Woman,” he says with a laugh, “I keep telling you the race is only three miles. I’d still fall down dead in a real marathon.”

“Okay, mister. But for a man who could hardly walk from the couch to the kitchen six months ago, I think three miles
should
be called a marathon.”

Bettie bumps her hip on his thigh, and as Freddie holds her tighter, something in their hallway captures my attention: a painting of tangled tree branches covered in beige blossoms over a greenish-blue background.

Almond Blossom
. That’s what it’s called. I know because it’s the same artwork as Ashlyn’s phone case. The same artwork as the thick bracelet I gave her for our third monthiversary because she loved it so much.

“That’s a cool picture,” I blurt out as my heart rate slams into overdrive. “In your hallway.”

“Oh, thanks!” Betty says. “The color scheme is perfect for this house. A van Gogh on canvas maybe isn’t the most unique choice, but we love it. If only we could have afforded the original! Can you imagine? We’d be living somewhere a
bit
more exotic than Palm Springs, California, if that were the case.”

We all chuckle, and then there’s a silence long enough for me
to decide the Blackwells’ conversation with any other delivery kid would be coming to an end now. Plus, I need to check on Cloudy. “Well, good luck with the race. And, um, have a great rest of your day.”

“Likewise,” Freddie says.

Bettie lifts the basket in my direction—like it’s a glass of champagne and she’s toasting.

I rush back to the Xterra, where Cloudy’s waiting in the driver’s seat with her sunglasses on her face again. It probably worked out that she didn’t come back to their door, since she might have unknowingly contradicted my grand-prize story. Still, it would have been better if she’d gotten to meet Bettie, seen Ashlyn’s favorite picture hanging in their house, and heard for herself the few details they shared about Freddie’s sixteen-year-old lungs.

Wait. Sixteen?

My breath catches as I pull the door open. Bettie said sixteen, but she was wrong.

When I turned seventeen a couple of weeks ago, I had the sucky realization that Ashlyn was born 138 days before I was, but since she died at sixteen, I’m going to be older than her for the rest of my life. It hadn’t occurred to me until now that her lungs (and the rest of her transplanted parts) actually
are
seventeen now.

It isn’t a huge consolation. But still, how cool is that?

“
W
e saw the burros.”

I tear my eyes away from the pages I’m reading and there she is: a tiny girl, maybe five or six, right at my elbow. She squints up at me and I scan the grounds for whoever might belong to her. We’re at a rest area on the way to Montezuma Castle; it’s a smallish plaza with a well-kept brick building, surrounded by concrete, gravel, and prickly looking trees. It’s also the last rest stop for miles, so it’s not like the girl could be on her own. And yet, here she is, alone.

“You what?” I ask her.

Moving a bronze curl off her forehead, she says, “They didn’t let us feed them, though.”

“They?”

“The ghosts.”

As we hold each other’s stare, I carefully readjust the duffel—with Arm inside of it—on my shoulder. “You’ll have to fill in the blanks, kid.”

She lets out this pathetic whine that’s bordering on cute, then jabs her finger at the display beside us.
“There.”

The words “On Your Way” are up top, with photographs and descriptions of roadside attractions below it. That much I already know—I saw it ten minutes ago, when I first propped myself against this brick wall.

After taking off from Freddie’s porch this morning, all I wanted was to find my iPod. Even though my hands were shaking too hard to be useful, I kept sifting through the Xterra’s cargo space for it. Two reasons: 1) No chance in hell was I listening to Death Cab all the way to Sedona, the words “love is watching someone die” poking at me. Because no, we weren’t with Ashlyn when she was taken off life support, but I remember what she looked like. Like she was some kind of science experiment, not my best friend. Maybe Kyle’s been able to overwrite his memories, but Ashlyn in that bed is still the image embossed in mine. And now that Kyle’s had some kind of breakthrough, how many times will he let that Sarah song play through? Not happening.

And 2), if I didn’t keep myself busy, focused on that one absurdly minor task, it was very likely I’d short circuit, right on the most solicitor-free street in America. Because I’d spotted it almost immediately.
Almond Blossom
. Ashlyn’s painting. When my eyes locked on it, the oxygen had left my body. It was a punch in the stomach, or that breathless feeling when there’s unexpected plane turbulence.

In the middle of the search, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

So how did it go with Freddie??

Zoë’s text made me feel monitored. Caught.

I’d nearly fallen apart in front of the Blackwells, and I didn’t need Zoë pressing me for the details.

So I turned my phone to silent and tossed it onto the dashboard to be forgotten.

“See?”

Blinking, I yank my thoughts back to the rest stop, to the young girl chattering away. I follow her pointed finger up to the corner of the sign labeled
Oatman, AZ: A Living Ghost Town.
Well, that explains the “ghosts” telling her not to do things. I hope. There’s a short write-up below the heading that describes Oatman’s history as a gold-mining town, and with that, a photo of some donkeys in the middle of a dusty road.

“Those guys, you mean?” I ask her, tapping the donkeys. Burros.

She grins, balancing on her toes. “They were everywhere,” she says, her small arms stretching out around her, “and they smelled kinda bad, but I got real close anyway, and one tried to kiss my dad!”

“Wow.”

“I know.”
She bends her head all the way back to goggle at me. “What’s your name?”

“Cloudy,” I tell her, then peruse the area again, this time for her dad. Unless there was some tragic burro-kissing incident, it sounds like she’s with him. If not literally at this very moment. “What’s yours?”

“Rosey. Are you going to the burros?”

“Maybe. If we have time.”

“You should make time,” she says, very seriously, so I can’t help but smile.

“I’ll ask my friend if he’s into it. Deal?”

Her nose scrunches up. “Where’s your friend?”

I squat down beside her, arranging the duffel on the ground between us and flattening the emails across my lap, then gesture over at Kyle. He’s away from the paved-over center of the rest stop, pacing in the dirt beside two shrubs. “See that boy?” I ask Rosey, and she nods. “He’s my friend.”

Kyle must sense the attention because he glances over at us, eyebrows furrowed and his cell pressed to his ear. Rosey and I wave. It seems to confuse him more.

“So where’s your dad?” I try to say this to her casually, and not like a stranger with candy.

Nevertheless, Rosey ignores me as she pirouettes, ending with some flair. “Are you a fairy? You have a name like a fairy.”

“Rosey!” We both turn our heads. A woman is stalking over, her face a mix of worry and exasperation. “I told you to wait inside the bathroom for me.” Rosey’s mom, I’m assuming. “You can’t run off. It’s very dangerous,” she adds, giving me the once-over.

I stand up—crouching never sells your innocence. “She was just telling me about the burros.”

“Cloudy said she’s going, too. We made a deal!” As she squeals the last word, she launches herself into the woman’s arms.

Kyle walks up as Rosey and her mom start off toward the parking lot. He’s still gripping his phone, and motions at their backs with it. “What was that about?”

Arching a brow, I say, “Oh, you’re the only one who can pick up strays?”

He laughs, then reaches inside the duffel to stroke Arm on the head. “Will wants us to meet him before sunset, so it’ll have to be a quick stop at Montezuma Castle.”

“He’s not building a moat to keep you away, huh?” Kyle was trying to hide it earlier, but he was apprehensive about asking Will if we could stay at his house. It all worked out exactly as I’d thought—without a problem—which is why it feels so good to mess with him.

“It’s already past two in the afternoon. He’d never have the time,” he says, sliding the bag off my shoulder. As we head for the Xterra, our shoes kick up dust. “What’s Arm doing with you?” he asks. “I thought we decided it was cool enough for her in the car.”

“Are you joking? I couldn’t leave her by herself.” I sweep my arm out, taking in the numerous signs dotting the area that warn against having your pets loose—Poisonous Snakes and Insects in Area. Danger! Death Trap! “Face it, Kyle. Your homeland wants to murder your cat.”

Kyle points the remote to unlock the doors. “I hate to break this to you, but she was probably safer in the car than outside.”

“Maybe if she actually
was
an armadillo instead of just named after them,” I scoff, opening my door and climbing up inside. “She’d be completely defenseless in here.”

Kyle’s smile is distracted as he leans across to deposit Arm—now liberated from the duffel—in my lap, then quietly slides into the driver’s seat. It’s such a difference from how hopped up he was when we left Palm Springs. His mood was so upbeat, he could have floated to Arizona. He didn’t even complain when
I synced up some old Marina and the Diamonds without asking, or notice that my fingers were wrapped around the steering wheel so tightly, I had to massage them every few miles. Instead he went on and on about Freddie and Bettie, how grateful they are for the transplant, and how Kyle realized that Ashlyn’s lungs will grow older even though she won’t, but isn’t that amazing? That had me lowering my window, desperate for fresh air, despite the whipping wind.

And Ashlyn’s painting—that really got Kyle going. I nodded and made the appropriate mm-hmming noises, adding in the occasional exclamation point, while Kyle gushed about how impossible it was. That they liked the same painting as Ashlyn. But the idea of it was more like antifreeze in my arteries.
Almond Blossom
, perfectly placed in the Blackwells’ hallway, was a taunt. I thought of the people who’ll pass by that wall. Would they even notice it hanging there? Or would it only be background scenery?

Ever since she’d seen a print of it in a museum gift shop, Ashlyn had loved that painting. She’d say it was welcoming and exquisite. Everyone who knew her knew that. It was practically her coat of arms. She flashed the bracelet Kyle gave her whenever she could, and I would tease her for being a show-off. But she’ll never get to show it off like the Blackwells have, in a brand-new house, or apartment, or dorm room. No one will see her phone case again, not until the Montiels take it from her desk and stuff it into some cardboard box to put away or donate—or worse, send to some landfill. Soon, enough time will pass that no one will randomly come across
Almond Blossom
and automatically think of Ashlyn. The unfairness of it wriggled through me until
I felt like I might scream from it.

But I’m happy for Kyle—I am. Visiting the recipients is doing exactly what I hoped it would. His grins come easier now, and his shoulders don’t seem to carry as much weight. It’s important he doesn’t figure out what went wrong with me in Palm Springs. And at least one thing went right: within a couple of hours, we were able to put Jade and Freddie permanently behind us. In a few more, we’ll be even farther away, in Sedona.

Arm nestles into the crook of my elbow and, while I’m not sure Kyle will need them, I pull up the directions on my phone. As I do, I notice he hasn’t turned on the engine yet—his stare is fixed on the dashboard. I snatch an unused straw from the center console and javelin-throw it at his neck. “Did you forget how cars start?”

The tips of his ears are pink, and he runs a hand through his hair. “So . . . that whole ‘armadillo’ thing, with Arm. I sort of came up with it on the spot that morning.”

I smile. “You don’t say.”

He glances at me sideways. “You knew the whole time?”

“A-R-M? It’s pretty obvious. To me, anyway.” I shrug, absently stroking Arm’s back and belly. Her little paws knead through the thin fabric of my skirt. “But naming her after Ashlyn is sweet. She’d love it. You know how passionate she was about the furry and adorable.”

Kyle swivels in his seat. “Do you ever think about what happened to Ashlyn? I mean, her . . . spirit or whatever.”

I blow out a sharp breath. “Um, sure. Heaven. The normal route.”

“I’ve never believed in heaven or anything like that. The
afterlife
.” He rubs at the skin right below his lower lip. “But ever since she died, I’ve sometimes wished I had it in me to believe in
something
.”

“Something like what?”

He nods almost imperceptibly toward the cat in my lap. I follow his gaze to Arm, who’s turned on her back, her legs outstretched. So Kyle wants to believe in, what, animals? Animal rights? Or something more Arm-specific? Arm. Arm . . . A-R-M.

With a gasp, it hits me: “Reincarnation?”

His eyes search me frantically. “I’m not saying Arm
is
Ashlyn. . . . Not really.” He props an elbow on the steering wheel, hiding his face with his hand. “Forget it. I sound delusional.”

“Kyle, no.” I jostle him, and he groans. “Come on, I’m listening.”

“I just . . . When I saw her—Arm—in the parking lot, I got this feeling. Like there was something familiar about her.”

My lips tug up at the sides. “The green eyes? The black fur?”

He lifts one shoulder, sheepish. “I don’t know. But I thought if there was even the slightest chance that reincarnation is real and Ashlyn might be alive again . . . I couldn’t leave her there, outside, all alone. I had to look out for her.”

“You’re doing a good job of it,” I say, forcing my voice to keep from cracking.

“It’s not like I’m in love with a cat or anything,” he says. I burst out laughing, and I spy Kyle’s mouth tilting in a lopsided grin. “I needed to be clear on that,” he tells me.

“You’re clear.”

“And I didn’t keep her so I could fixate on Ashlyn dying,
or as an excuse not to move on. It’s about doing some good for Ashlyn now. I wanted to return the favor.” He brings up his fingers, kneading them into his forehead. “Damn, I really do sound insane.”

Shaking my head, I say, “Not any crazier than wondering if Ashlyn is possessing her organ recipients.”

He sags against the seat. “You think?”

I narrow my eyes out the windshield, taking in the rest area once more. So far, Arizona is greener than I ever pictured. Not as burned-looking as the sandy and cracked-earth desert I was expecting. “I think that we can believe whatever it takes to get us through,” I tell Kyle. “As long as she’s okay. Somewhere she deserves to be.”

“Yeah.” He’s still holding on to the steering wheel, his arms straight, and he exhales. “Exactly.”

Then he turns the engine on. I’m not sure he wants to talk about Arm or Ashlyn anymore, so I lean back and tell him about Rosey and the burros.

THERE’S NOT MUCH I know about Kyle’s life before he moved to Bend. Even when he first got there, he was never all that forthcoming about it. Ashlyn thought it might have to do with his mom—bad memories, maybe. If she ever asked him, she didn’t tell me. And besides, with Matty around, Kyle eased in so seamlessly; it was practically like he’d belonged to Bend all along.

But when we stop at Montezuma Castle, he tells me it isn’t technically a castle but an apartment-type complex carved into a
limestone cliff, and that up until the 1950s, tourists would climb questionably safe ladders to peek inside. His smile stretches wider with every word. And as we pass over into Sedona, the change in Kyle is even more obvious. His shoulders are pressed into the seat, and only one of his hands holds on to the steering wheel. He’s relaxed, loose. Like he knows the way.

And the way is unreal.

We’re on a one-lane highway that’s bordered on each side by clumpy, reddish dirt and vibrant green brush. But as much as I love the greenery, the rock formations—that’s what Kyle called them—are my favorite. They’re these natural structures that look like stony layer cakes: a layer of red rock, and brown, and orange, and beige. Some even have clusters of bushes and trees at the top and sides, like frosting. Others are shaped like ancient temples or alien architecture, something that’s distinctly otherworldly. They’re so different from the hills and mountains at home that I snap a few photos. I catch Kyle smiling to himself when I’m done.