Me, surrounded by people I cared about. Me, being a good person, a good friend, all the things she prided herself on having taught me. After so many months of looking at me only in the context of my brother, finally, in that bright institutional light, my mother had glimpsed me simply as Sydney, with no precedent or comparison.
Peyton had always been there, coloring the view. Big, vibrant colors first, then the grays and darkness of the last couple of years. But in that moment, surrounded by people she didn’t know in a strange room and place, I was the opposite of invisible, the sole thing she recognized. And with that came an understanding of what I’d been trying to tell her for so long: I was different from my brother. And maybe that meant that she, now, could be different, too.
I didn’t know this when I went out and found her in the hallway. I just stopped short, so surprised at the sight of her, I couldn’t speak.
“Is she okay?” she asked finally, nodding at the open door to 919.
“She will be,” I replied.
As she reached up, running a hand over her face, I waited: for directions, admonishment, something. The end of a chase meant someone was caught. Now it was just about details.
And later, they would come. Our conversation at the table the following morning would be the first of many about the last few months. We didn’t just talk about that one night, but everything, all the way back to before Peyton had ever gotten into trouble. The walks in the woods. Those long, lonely afternoons. My choice of switching to Jackson. Mac and Layla. David Ibarra. Ames. After holding it in for so long, I sometimes felt like I didn’t even have enough breath to say everything I needed to. But somehow, it came.
When the talking got hard—and it did—I’d think back to that one moment in the hospital hallway. I was used to my mother always having a plan. This time was different.
As I watched, she leaned forward, elbows on knees, and rested her head in her hands. A nurse was coming down the hall toward us, her shoes squeaking softly. She barely glanced at us. She was accustomed to anguish.
You get used to people being a certain way; you depend on it. And when they surprise you, for better or worse, it can shake you to your core. My mother had always been tough, so fierce and protective. I would never have thought seeing her fall apart would be anything but devastating. Little did I know that it was just what would give me the chance, finally, to be the strong one.
I knelt down by her chair, sliding my arms around her. At first, she stiffened slightly, surprised. Then, slowly, I felt her weight soften against me, human and living and warm. Our embrace was awkward—her hair in my face, one of my ankles slightly twisted—the way the most vulnerable and precious of things can be. But we were there, together, and in the next room I could hear that monitor beeping. Keeping track of another heart’s beat and giving enduring, solid proof of our own.
CHAPTER
26
“READY?”
I looked at Mac behind the wheel of the truck. “As I’ll ever be.”
He smiled, then reached over, squeezing my hand. Then we pulled out from the curb in front of Seaside and were on our way.
It had been two months since the night of the showcase, a new year begun. Already, I knew it would be better than the last one.
Mrs. Chatham was home and recuperating, her children and husband rallying around her more than ever. Brilliant or Catastrophic did not win the showcase—apparently, the judges were more fans of screaming than Irv—but had attracted the interest of a local studio owner, who was recording a real demo in exchange for Eric doing grunt work for him. With an actual music-related job, his ego was bigger than ever, something I hadn’t even thought possible.
Layla, however, clearly saw things differently, or so I’d realized one afternoon at the hospital two days after the showcase. I’d had my usual provisions—fries, magazines, YumYums—and come into the room expecting to find her in the customary spot, the recliner next to her mom’s bed. She was there, but not alone. Eric was lying back, stretched out, with her curled up tight against him, her arms around his neck. I’d stepped back, surprised, and didn’t mention it when we met a few minutes later in the hallway. A couple of weeks later, when they officially announced they were a couple, I made it a point to act surprised.
As for me and Mac, we were solid, helped by the fact that my mom had eased her grip on my schedule. I didn’t have total free reign—this was Julie Stanford, after all—but we’d worked out a compromise. I had my lunches free, but still worked three days a week at Kiger with Jenn. It kept us in contact, and often Meredith joined us for lunch as well (it went unsaid that Margaret, while still in the picture, was not invited). Layla and I had at least one afternoon a week to hit SuperThrift and to seek out great fries when I wasn’t teaching her to drive, a process that was both terrifying and hilarious, often at the same time. Whatever time remained, I was with Mac, either at his house, Seaside, or in the truck, running deliveries. My pizza whispering continued to be spot-on, if I did say so myself. Mr. Chatham said I had a knack for the business. I’d honestly never been more flattered.
After I’d decided not to press charges against Ames, his lawyer had stopped contacting my father about his injuries, and we heard nothing else from either of them. My brother, however, was now calling me regularly on my phone, so we could talk away from my house and parents. We had a lot to cover, with what had happened with Ames and everything else, and sometimes the pauses and silences felt heavy enough to break me. When all else failed, we had Big New York to fall back on. I’d even talked him around to Team Ayre, or close to it. Progress.
Peyton had been increasingly in touch with my parents, too, calling more regularly. He’d started running on the track every day during the time he was allowed outside, and he was working on his speed, reading everything he could get his hands on about training. My mom, who had run cross-country in college, was somewhat of an expert, and with this new topic came a new, hesitant phase of their relationship. Eventually, Peyton asked her to come to visit. At first, hearing this, I’d been apprehensive, wondering if we’d go back down the same path where her involvement became more like an obsession. But my mother surprised me. She did visit, and enjoyed the calls, especially the running discussions. But she gave Peyton the space he needed and let him come to her once in a while, instead of chasing him down.
It helped that she’d found a new cause to busy herself with. After that night at U General, she’d returned to visit with Mrs. Chatham. They ended up talking about insurance issues, as well as the lack of outreach at U General for patients and their families. What began as her offering to meet with some administrators on the Chathams’ behalf to do a little fact-finding had, over the ensuing weeks, led not only to her volunteering in patient relations, but to the prospect of a paid position. She claimed to still be mulling it over, that she was too busy with everything else, but my dad and I knew she’d eventually agree. My mom loved a worthy cause, and at U General, she’d never again have a shortage of them.
Peyton had ten more months at Lincoln, his sentence having been cut down a bit due to good behavior. Once released, he’d move to a halfway house for six weeks, where he’d be expected to find a job and housing while also training for his first 10K. For all her progress, I could tell it was making my mom nuts not to help with this, and more than once I’d walked up on her computer to find rental info or classifieds pulled up on the screen. Old habits are hard to break. But I knew she was trying.
I was, too. Another Family Day was coming up at Lincoln in February, and I’d decided to attend. My mom was thrilled—naturally—but less so when I told her that he and I had decided I’d go on my own. We’d come this small distance alone, with so much more to go, and I didn’t want to change anything for fear of losing ground. What I was sure of was that whatever relationship my brother and I would have once he was out would be different from our lives as kids. We’d both grown up, in vastly di
fferent ways. But I was looking forward, now, to getting to know him. I hoped he felt the same way.
Meanwhile, at home, we were learning, too, finding a new way to be together without Peyton always present in spirit, if not person. My mom and I were talking about colleges and making plans to visit campuses. Thinking about a different future now. Mine. And after not a little pressure from me, Mac had finally talked to his dad about his hopes for going to the U for engineering, or even elsewhere. Mr. Chatham had been dubious, which we’d all expected. But he didn’t say no. Now, in the afternoons at Seaside, Mac and I spent time researching schools in between homework assignments, finding out everything we could about the application process. Meanwhile, Layla—who had shown a new interest in the business after finding some books on corporate management at the library—was busy overhauling the Seaside register system and trying to convince her dad to make other changes. He was hesitant about this as well, but listening. After all, she was a connoisseur. And who knew? Maybe even with Mac away at college and beyond, Seaside would stay in the family after all.
That was just it. You never knew what lay ahead; the future was one thing that could never be broken, because it had not yet had the chance to be anything. One minute you’re walking through a dark woods, alone, and then the landscape shifts, and you see it. Something wondrous and unexpected, almost magical, that you never would have found had you not kept going. Like a new friend who feels like an old one, or a memory you’ll never forget. Maybe even a carousel.
As for me, I had some old business to tie up. It was Mrs. Chatham, actually, who put the idea in my head, during one of my shifts keeping her company in the cardiac rehab wing. They’d had her walking the hallways, getting her strength back, and she’d returned to her room exhausted, getting into bed and immediately closing her eyes. I’d thought she was sleeping and was starting on some calculus homework when she spoke.
“You should talk to him, you know.”
We’d been discussing Peyton during our walk together, how he and I were slowly working through things, even though it was sometimes hard. This happened often in her recovery, a sort of elasticity of time and conversation that led her to circle back to something I’d already forgotten. The doctors said it was partly meds, partly exhaustion.
“I’m trying,” I said. “But a lot of the time, even now, I don’t know what to say.”
“Yes, you do.” She yawned, turning her face into the pillow. “Start with ‘I’m sorry.’”
“Sorry?” I repeated.
She sighed, clearly drifting off. “Then just go from there.”
I sat there, confused, as a man passed outside the open door, carrying flowers and a big bouquet of balloons. I watched them bob past, bright and shiny, wondering what I was supposed to apologize to Peyton for. It was not until the next day that I realized maybe she hadn’t been talking about him at all.
Now, in the truck, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, glancing at the screen.
At studio with Eric. He is literally strutting, showing me around. Oh my god.
I smiled. You love it.
I swear I do not.
Another beep. My mom, this time.
Bring a pizza home for dinner? And your father is requesting garlic knots.
Done, I replied. There by six.
OK.
“Everything good?” Mac asked.
“Yeah,” I told him. “Everything’s fine.”
I was getting more nervous, though, the closer we got. While these were streets I knew well, having driven them myself more than once, it had been a while since I’d seen this turn, that intersection. By the time he pulled up in front of a small brick ranch with black trim, I could feel my heart beating in my chest.
Mac cut the engine, then turned to look at me. Wary as always, waiting for my okay. I reached for the door handle, opened it, and slid out. As I walked around to the curb, he reached behind him for the warmer. When I got to his window, he had it waiting.
“I can go with you,” he said. “If it would make it easier.”
“It would,” I told him. “But I think I need it to be difficult.”
Instead of replying, he reached out, cupping my face in his hands, and kissed me. Like always, I wanted it to last forever. I knew we had plenty of time now, though, so I made myself pull away.
And then, somehow, I was going up the walk. The closer I got to the door, the tighter my focus became. It was like I could see and feel everything, crystal clear and right up close. A yellow tabby, licking a paw by the steps. The slight incline of the ramp as I climbed it. Sound of a TV or music from inside. Someone laughing. As I got to the door, I glanced back at Mac. Being with him hadn’t fixed everything in my life; no one person could do that. But it was okay. Anyway, it was unrealistic to expect to be constantly in the happiest place. In real life, you’re lucky just to be always somewhere nearby.
I shifted the warmer, then reached up and knocked. There’s always that lag between when you announce yourself and a door opens, while you wait to see what’s on the other side. Working with Mac like this, I’d caught brief glimpses of so many lives, tiny bits of a million stories. This one, though, was mine.
“Coming,” a voice called out, and then I heard a whirring sound, growing louder as it approached. I reached up, cupping my hand over the pendant Mac had given me, the way I now found myself doing often. My Saint Anything. I liked the thought of someone looking out for me, whoever it might be. We all need protecting, even if we don’t always know what from.
A lock clicked, and I watched the knob twist and the door open. And then David Ibarra was looking up at me, his face surprised. “Did we order a pizza?”
“Not exactly,” I replied.
I had no idea what would happen from here, if there were even words to say everything I was feeling. He might slam the door in my face. Ask what good I thought I’d do, coming here. I had imagined all these scenarios, and every possible variation thereof. Only now, though, showing myself, would I find out what was meant to be.
Start with “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Chatham had told me. Standing there facing him, all I could think of was another beginning, in that courtroom so many months ago. The judge had asked something—Would the defendant please rise—and what followed was for me, Peyton, my parents, Mac, Layla, all of us, one long, still ongoing answer. It seemed only right that now, here, I’d pose a question of my own.
“I’m Sydney Stanford,” I said. “Can I come in?”
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