Truest (26 page)

Dad and I went to Mikey's for ice cream soon after my breakdown.

“I'm going to come back to church on Sunday,” I told him.

“Yeah?” he asked, and there was no judgment in his voice.

Staying away had been a failed power play against my parents anyway, and since I now had their attention, there seemed no reason to avoid a community I was feeling more drawn to than ever before.

“I think I—I think I might love God,” I admitted. I felt a mix of surprise and acceptance as I vocalized what I'd been processing since the night of my birthday. The mystery of it all had been sinking into my heart like a barb, one I'd reluctantly welcomed. “I don't really know him very well, but I love him. I'm angry at him too.
Really
angry. Do you think that's weird?”

“Not at all. Anger and love aren't mutually exclusive.”

It was true. I had learned that lesson from the Hart twins.

Mikey's smelled like cinnamon rolls and burned hash browns and greasy fries.

“I don't want you to hate Silas,” I told him.

He looked surprised. “I don't hate him, West! Why would you think that?”

I blushed. “You know.”

Dad smiled as he took a bite of his rocky road. He licked some melted ice cream off his finger. He looked tired—really tired—and I wondered if he'd told Teresa and Glen about our secret.

“How is he?” I asked.

“Silas? He's still—what's the word?—reeling, can't seem to find solid footing.”

“Lost,” I summarized.

“Yeah.”

“I wish I could do something for him.”

My dad was quiet for a moment, then said, “You know, Laurel Hart used to come alive during Holy Communion. And communion celebrates death. Something to think about, eh?”

“Tell him that, Dad. Please. Find a good way to say it.”

“I will.”

My ice cream tasted cool and creamy and refreshing, and I had the briefest of insights that things
might
be okay in a million years. It was a lot of responsibility for one cone.

“Can we go on some college visits this fall?” I asked, switching subjects.

“Sure we can, kiddo.”

“I don't want to go to Tellham and Barr University. Or anywhere in North Dakota.”

He laughed. “Okay.”

“I want to be a history major.” I hadn't known I was going to say it, yet it made perfect sense: there was nothing I loved more than a good story. And right now, more than anything, I needed the stories to be true. I needed them to keep me—keep us all—from becoming madmen.

Dad smiled again. “That sounds great,” he said, then breathed in and exhaled dramatically. “Ahhh, a plan.”

I nodded, just a little, then stared intently at my cone. “Part of me still feels
pending.
Till the police report comes out, you know? With some answers?”

When I looked up at my dad, his sad smile sobered my heart, and just that easily, I realized there were no answers forthcoming, no resolution on its way for us.

“We're never going to know what happened that night, are we?” I whispered.

“I . . . wouldn't count on it, West.”

I had pinned so many hopes on the police report—as if it would somehow magically decode Laurel's last evening, as if it would be our sanctuary, a safe house that would absolve our guilt—but this was real life, full of uncertainties and ambiguity.

“You gonna be okay, Wink?” Dad asked.

I closed my eyes to the illusory black sun.

Even though it felt as if the ground had been taken out from beneath me, I shouldered myself to believe that was an illusion too. Never before had I thought I could
choose
what to believe—and maybe I didn't think that even now. I only knew that I would fight anyone, including myself, to hold on to the idea that rescue was still happening all around me.

“I think so,” I said, my voice flickering like a candle.

I started to take long walks alone—around town, stopping to see Gordon at Legacy House, and sometimes around the lake, despite the chilly air that came across the water. I'd think about Laurel as I stared out across the waves, which were ashy gray in the cloudy weather we'd had lately. And since I saw failure every direction I looked, sometimes I prayed.

I wanted to ask Silas,
Was God in control of Laurel's death too?
Not to be cruel—I honestly wanted to know what he thought about it. I wanted to hear him say yes, to say that God knew what he was doing when she died, to say that it wasn't our fault but God's. But when I heard myself reason it out—caught myself trying to assign blame—I had this strong feeling that I was still on the outside of something large, that it wasn't
about
blame.

It all felt new and overwhelming: instead of processing everything with Trudy or Dad or Gordon or Silas, I was opening
up my chest and letting God make sense of the mess. It was a new thing for me to step out alone—although, I guess the point was that I
wasn't
alone. I'd let the wind blow my hair, even as I zipped the collar of my jacket up to the top. The word that was always trying to burrow into my heart was “healing.” It was like a question I asked every single minute.

There were no answers—not really—except for this one strange feeling that reminded me of when Trudy and I were kids. One of us would lie on the driveway cement while the other outlined the first's body with chalk, down the slope of the shoulder, in between the fingers, sweeping wide around the head like a halo. We'd color them in with chalk, drawing faces and clothes and hair.

And while I sat and prayed, I had the same sensation—that I was being outlined, defined, and that the definition didn't come from me.

I was trying to hold so many things—but this one thing was holding me.

I still hurt. Every day. But somehow routine managed to creep in like an anesthetic.

At school, I ate lunch with Bridget and Marcy and Trudy—and Ami Nissweller, who was actually pretty cool. It turned out Trudy never slept with either Adam or Alex Germaine. “But the condoms didn't go to waste,” Ami said with an amused grin. “The campers
loved
the ‘weird water balloons'
they found.” My laugh was so unexpected that milk came out my nose and I started coughing, and Trudy had to thump me on the back while the lunch attendants glared at us.

“What'd you do with yours?” Trudy asked when I could breathe again.

“I'll never tell,” I said slyly—though maybe I would, later, just to her. Or maybe not. I held those memories in a guarded fist I might never uncurl.

“So, Mom and Paul finally noticed the booze disappearing,” Whit said to me and Elliot one evening after most people had left the movie theater. He stared at the credits scrolling on the screen. “There was a bit of . . . an intervention.” His eyes flicked toward me.

“Were they mad?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, actually. Mom cried a lot, which sucked. But they started me in weekly therapy—‘long overdue,' Mom said—and are going with me to AA meetings at the Catholic church in Shaw.”

“Whit,” I said softly, then found it was all I had to say.

“And this asshole”—here Whit nodded toward Elliot—“makes me go
running
with him.”

I laughed, then Elliot added, “Silas came with us too. Just once. He asked about you.” The screen went dark. “God, I can't believe I'm saying this . . . but you need to talk to him, West,” he said, to which I replied, “Maybe.”

And then there was my family.

We started to eat dinner together, during which we took the phone off the hook. Afterward, Shea and Dad played Battleship while Libby and I worked on homework and Mom fussed with my scrapbook to a soundtrack of Chuck Justice.

One evening after dinner, the phone rang. Libby turned down the music while Dad took the call.

“So . . . it's not an emergency,” he said when he hung up. “He's
fine
,” he stressed, looking in my direction, “but Gordon had a little accident tonight.”

My heart sped up. “What do you mean? What happened? What sort of accident?”

“He's
fine
,” Dad repeated, “but from what I understand, he misplaced the little jar of water where he dips his used matches. He dropped the match on the coffee table. It set off the Legacy House fire alarm and left a crater in the table and he burned his hand, but apparently it's a minor burn and will heal just fine.”

“He's going to have to leave his apartment, isn't he?” I asked. “And move to the other side of the building?”

“His children think that's a good idea.”

“Are you going up to see him, Dad?” Shea asked.

“Nope,” said my father, sitting back down across from Shea. “You didn't peek at where my ships are, did you, Shea?”

Shea let out a guilty giggle. “Maybe.”

“Let's go to the hospital, Dad,” I said. “I want to see Gordon.”

“He'll be back in Green Lake tomorrow,” Dad said. “At
most, the day after.” He was trying so hard to make the right decision, I knew. I hated to confuse him.

“Let's all go,” said Libby. “Together.”

Everyone looked at her.

“Okay?” she said.

After a pause, “Okay,” said Dad.

So we did.

“How are you?” I asked when I made my way to Gordon's apartment the next week. It still smelled of smoke and was mostly empty, though a few boxes were stacked against the wall.

He smiled a little sadly and held up his bandaged fingers. “I'm all right. My daughter and Betsy came over to help me pack up—and downsize.” He led me into the living room, which still had his rocker. “I can get you a chair,” he said.

“No need,” I said, taking a seat on the floor and thinking how apt it was for me to sit at the feet of my favorite teacher. I glanced around the room at the empty walls. “Your books!”

“No space for them in the new room,” he explained. “And—it was time.”

“Did you sell them?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Gave the whole lot to Betsy. She'll take good care of them.”

“I'm glad,” I said.

“All but one,” he corrected. He reached beside his chair, picked up the book that rested there, and held out his copy of
Collier.

“For me?” I squeaked out, taking it from him.

“No one understands wielding story as a weapon the way you do, dear. Now tell me: How are you?”

“I don't know,” I admitted, running my hands over the book cover. “I don't understand how one part of me can be healing so well while another still aches.”

“Growing pains.”

“Yeah, a certain kind.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

It was quiet then, and I was grateful that Gordon allowed there to be silence between us and that it wasn't uncomfortable. I flipped open the cover of the book; inside, it was signed by Donovan Trick. There was also an inscription from Gordon to his late wife.

Mavis, my heart
,

I present to you my favorite story besides ours, both such august arms.

Love, Gordy

My eyes pricked with tears. It had actually been
her
book.

“I've always thought of myself as sort of blurry,” I choked out. “It feels silly now.”

Gordon's silence asked the question.

I answered, “It was never my job—or Silas's—or Dad's—to define me. The lines were always there. I just didn't know where to look, how to see.” I felt a little bashful saying this, even though this was Gordon, and I knew he knew what I meant. Probably even better than I knew myself.

“The police report came out,” I said. “Inconclusive.”

He pressed his lips together.

“Is it always this way?” I asked.

“What way?” Gordon asked back.

“Does life always have more questions than answers?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “At least that's my experience. And actually, the older I get, the more questions I have.”

“It seems so backward,” I said.

Gordon laughed a little. “Does it really surprise you, Westie? Faith and uncertainty are accomplices.”

I nodded. He was right.

I thought about Laurel, about the night we watched the fireworks, when she felt she was going to corkscrew into the universe. I'd feel the same way except my prayers these days were so simple, so stark, so “please-just-keep-me-in-one-piece” that they worked like weights in my shoes. Silas once told me that God's message to him was to
abide.
I needed help with even that.

Gordon's—no, Mavis's—copy of
Collier
sat in my lap.
Stories are our most august arms against the darkness.

The promise sat in my stomach like a hearty stew, or like truth.

I'd intended to head home after talking with Gordon—the autumn evenings were starting earlier and earlier—but I found my steps compelled toward the beach, the cold air working into all my gaps as I realized it was about time to break out the winter scarf and mittens. I tucked
Collier
beneath my arm and blew on my hands to keep them warm.

My steps grew quick with purpose I didn't understand. Until I saw there was someone in the lifeguard stand, and knew without a doubt that it was him. His posture, though, was bankrupt. Ghosts moved across the semifrozen waters, keeping my feet from retreat. He hadn't seen me yet; I could still slip away unnoticed. But I knew that I wouldn't. Or couldn't.

I could barely breathe as I approached the lifeguard stand. And though I was not at all surprised to see Silas Hart,
he was surprised to see me.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” he said, barely a whisper.

“Can I join you?”

He was still staring at me, and I couldn't interpret the look on his face. He looked tired and somehow older—especially his eyes—but
good.
He needed a haircut. He nodded, almost imperceptibly, and I climbed up into the chair, sat beside him, our legs extended in front of us, not touching. My heart was racing. Neither of us spoke.

“How's school?” he finally asked.

A tiny laugh escaped me. It was the last thing I expected him to say after all these weeks of silence, but he grinned at my giggle. “It's fine,” I said. “It's
school.
How do you like it?”

Silas shrugged. He was wearing no jacket, only a sweatshirt—I wondered if the cold Alaskan winters had ruined him for Minnesotan ones. The shirt said, “G.I. José: A Real Mexican Hero,” and I was tempted to giggle again, but I figured it was mostly nerves.

“It's all right. It's so small. I feel like everyone's in my business.”

“They
are
.”

We were quiet again. I heard my pulse pounding in my ears, loud like a storm only I could hear. All I could think of was how clean he smelled, how near he was, how if I only turned my head, I could see him up close for the first time in
months. But I only stared ahead.

“Did you read the new Donovan Trick?” I asked, feebly brandishing
Collier.

“Yeah, it was good.”

“Yeah, I liked it too.”

Another long pause.

Then, “West.” It was so soft. It sounded like a different name, like a brand-new way to pronounce it. I chanced a glance at him and saw that he was looking at his feet. “Look, I'm sorry for how I reacted after Laurel died. I didn't mean to drive you off like that.” His words were composed, thoughtful.

I wanted to let myself be folded into his words, but I was new now, different, guarded. “You said I was a distraction,” I said back.

This time he turned and looked directly in my eyes. “Now,
that
—that is true.”

Ouch. I looked away.

“I get so mad, you know?” he said, and his voice was louder than before, full of pent-up anger and frustration. No wonder his cross-country season went so well, I thought. “Sometimes it feels like I'm being asked to choose between you and Laurel—or actually, like I did choose this summer, and like I failed my sister. I know it's not like that—not exactly like that—but I regret things and I don't. Does that make any sense?”

Not really. And since confusion was a language I'd become fluent in, I nodded.

“I dreamed about her,” he said softly.

“Yeah?”

Silas was quiet; then he finally said, “I don't think I'm ready to talk about it yet.”

“Okay.”

Silence once more.

It was so disarming to be near him again. Even if it hurt, I was glad for this, glad he was here beside me, no matter how long it would take to recover from this tiny interaction. My chest started to ache at the thought. This was Silas Hart, who had seen me naked and had walked away, and I felt bashful.

“I tried to call you,” he said.

“I saw that.”

“I looked for you after the funeral. You were gone.”

“I'm sorry.”

“No.” The word was stern, causing me to look at him. “You have nothing to apologize for,” he said. “Not to me. Not when . . .” His voice faded out, and for a moment, I thought he might cry. He looked so terribly defeated, so lost in regret. Together, we looked out at the lake, its slate-colored waters choppy from the wind. It was curious, not cruel, when he asked softly, “Why are you here?”

I paused for a moment, then said, “To find you, I think.”

He seemed confused. “You—you knew I'd be here?”

I shook my head no; that wasn't what I meant. I swallowed and said, “Remember your poem? ‘Truest'?” I quoted,
“‘Darkness destroyed by the glory of dawn.'”

My heart was thumping in the silence that stretched in the space after I spoke.

“Yes,” he said.

After that, I didn't say anything; there was a lump in my throat, and when I found I couldn't swallow, I started to cry. I wasn't even sure why I was crying—except for the whole mess of everything—and for the tone of Silas's “yes,” which sounded like a boon, like a pardon. I chided myself for the unbidden tears, but I couldn't stop them.

It might have been habit or instinct, but Silas looked like maybe he wanted to reach for me.

“Silas.” I continued to cry. “I don't know how to say this without upsetting you. You have to know my heart in saying this, okay? You
know
me.”

He stared at me, wetted his dry lips. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, and what I was about to say might destroy any chance for reconciliation between us. I didn't want to say it.

But I had to.

“You know me,” I repeated. “You know I'm not being offhand when I say this.”

This time, he nodded.

I willed my voice to come out calm, steady, and slow: “It's just this. You told once me that—that things might
never
make sense—but that doesn't mean you stop trusting that the world is being rescued. These last couple months have been . . . there's
been nothing to
stand
on, you know? Except for this. It's . . . it's like
bedrock
, like you said. Climax before resolution. Darkness destroyed by dawn.”

My words washed over him, and I tasted the salt in my silent tears and begged him to understand what I was saying: the mystery, the goodness, the sovereignty. My tears came harder. I was desperate for him to understand that I was not shrugging off his sister's death. I was only trying to pull him onto solid ground so that he could look at all the questions.

His eyes looked sad . . . but purposeful. There was light in them.

“I know you said it was our fault,” I whispered, the words seeming to scratch my throat as they left. “And what we did was a mistake; you said so yourself.”

The sound of our breathing matched the rhythm of the waves.

Finally, he decided to speak. “
We
weren't a mistake, West. I—I miss you. So damn much, sometimes I think it's going to kill me.”

My heart was not even in my chest cavity. It had launched and was out flying over the lake, celebrating, and I wanted to call it back, wanted to make it stop, wanted to tell it that it was too soon to be happy—Laurel's grave was still too fresh, Silas had not finished speaking, and life had more questions than answers.

But then he touched me, put his hand beneath my face,
and gently moved my chin to look at him. “Do you hate me?” he asked. “For what I did to you? I understand if you do. I know why you're with Elliot.”

My throat ached, and my heart barreled back into my chest in a damaging sort of way. I closed my eyes, my eyelashes thick with tears, and shook my head. “I don't hate you,” I muttered. “I thought
you
hated me.” Then what he said registered. “Wait—with
Elliot? What?
”

“I saw you at the movies,” he said, eyes wide. “More than once. I mean, it's not like I've been . . . stalking you,” he spluttered. “I just . . . Are you not with Elliot?”

What I wanted to say was,
No, you have ruined me for other loves.
But I thought of myself kissing Elliot in his new car. I was the fool, not Silas. “No, I'm not with Elliot,” I mumbled.

Silas looked out at the lake, letting this sink in. When he looked back at me, his eyes were so deep, so dark. “I just—when I saw you, I felt guilty. For everything—that last night in the bell tower, for Laurel, for hurting you. And then I saw you with Elliot, and you looked so happy. I was actually glad for you for like five minutes—honestly wished to God you hadn't had to deal with any of my family's shit this summer.” He was quiet, then he said, calmly, clearly, “But
after
five minutes, I felt just as lost as I did after Laurel died.” He swallowed. “I miss you, West. I miss my best friend. I miss you
every single day.
I meant what I said—you're a distraction for me—the most perfect, beautiful distraction I can imagine.”

The tears came again. I was like a human irrigator tonight. His words ran in circles around my mind:
I miss my best friend . . . the most perfect, beautiful distraction.
I glanced over at him through tear-filled eyes. He stared at his shoes.

“It won't be the same,” I said. My nose was starting to run, but I didn't care.

He released a bitter, humorless laugh. “You think I don't know that?” he asked. “Laurel's death cracked my life like a fault line.” He looked at me. “West? Say the word, and I'll leave you alone. It's just, you're my match; do you know what I mean? I need a girl who reads like a fiend, who isn't embarrassed by my dancing. A girl who knows how to be silly, who wants to explore life and books and ideas—you know, a Brian major.” He offered me a hopeful glance.

I didn't say anything, couldn't say anything, couldn't even look at him. It was all so different now—
I
was so different now.

Silas breathed in deeply and let it all out, eyes closed, a long, labored exhalation as the silence stretched between us like a great bay of separation. “Okay,” he said. “Okay. It's okay.” Then, with effort heavy as regret, he climbed down from the stand and started to walk away.

I sniffled. “I'm going to be a history major,” I called out after him, wiping my nose on my sleeve. “Like Gordon was.”

At that, he turned around and beamed at me—a wide Silas-grin that seemed like a promise, or like heaven opened up. “Even better.”

He helped me down, and after he did, he didn't let go of my hand. There was no intimation that it would happen anytime soon; his grip was stronger than ever before. We paused; the swans on the lake spread their massive wings then and launched powerfully into the sky, creating a white
V
above us that flew southward until they were just gray specks on the cold horizon.