For This Life Only (10 page)

I was almost done assembling the stack when the phone rang. Delores answered. “Riverwoods Bible . . . Carrie? Is everything okay?”

Mom.
My head popped up. I could hear someone shrieking or crying through the receiver from across the room.

“Is that my mom?” I asked, standing, dread suffusing my whole body. Once something awful has happened, you assume the worst every time after that.

At her desk, Carol looked up from her computer, her forehead crinkling into worried lines.

“No, he's in a counseling appointment right now,” Delores said, gripping the receiver tighter, her rings making a scraping noise against the plastic. “But, Carrie, I can . . . Let me get him if it's an emergency.”

“What's going on?” I asked.

Carol stood and started for my dad's door. But Delores held her hand up to stop her.

Delores's gaze flicked to me. “Yes, he's here. . . . I don't know. I didn't hear it ring. He's . . . Just a second.” She held the receiver out to me.

I hurried to Delores's desk. “Mom, what's wrong?”

“Why didn't you answer your phone?” she asked.

I reached for my phone in my pocket and checked the screen. Five missed calls from home. “I forgot to take it off silent,” I said. I'd been so distracted by my dad's unexpected arrival, I'd completely blown past my regular post-school ritual.

“What's going on?” I asked, shoving my phone back in my pocket. “Is that Sarah?” It sounded more like a wounded animal than a person. I'd never heard her cry like that, not even after Eli died.

“Yes,” my mom said, sounding more tired and frustrated than upset. “When she asked why we weren't going to get you today after school, I told her we didn't have to. And then she lost it.”

There was the sound of fabric rustling and my mom's muffled voice as she turned away from the phone. “Sarah, please, I'm talking to Jace right now.” The desperation in her tone came through loud and clear. “He's okay, I told you.”

“I told her you were at the church,” she said to me. “She doesn't believe me.”

Because the last time her brothers hadn't been where they were supposed to be, Sarah had learned that one of us was dead.

“She's crying so hard, she's going to make herself
sick. But I can't get her out from under her bed.”

“Do you think she might need some help?” I asked carefully, aware that other people were listening. But what I meant was: She needs a therapist. I'd thought it before, but never dared to say anything. For that matter, we should probably all have one.

“Jace,” my mom said sharply. “Everyone grieves differently.”

There was a world of reprimand in those words. My dad was a counselor; he didn't get counseled. So I guess neither did the rest of us. When your primary spiritual advisor was also a member of your family—the same member who was currently working very hard to keep up appearances—then it was kind of a major conflict of interest and impossible to make any headway.

I'm so tired of this.
I rubbed my forehead with my free hand. Tired of being careful, tired of not being able to say what really needed to be said.

“You want me to try to talk to her?” I asked, not sure what else to say.

My mom didn't answer me, but I heard her talking to Sarah. “Honey, Jace is on the phone. I told you we'd find him. He wants to talk to you.”

“Sares, it's me,” I said, raising my voice a little. “What's wrong?”

No response but more wailing.

I grimaced. I wasn't sure she could hear me over the noise she was making.

“Sarah,” I shouted into the phone, like I was bellowing at her for messing with the TV settings. She liked to turn people green and red with the tint/brightness controls on the remote.

The sobbing on the other end of the line paused for a moment, followed by a hiccup.

“Jace?” a small, wobbly voice asked.

I exhaled. “Yeah, it's me. What's wrong?”

“You're not dead. Where are you?” she asked, sounding pitiful.

“No, I'm not dead. I'm at the church, like Mom said. Are you okay?”

“With Dad?” she persisted.

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Yes, Sarah, I'm sure,” I said, trying not to let my frustration leak through. I wasn't mad at her; it was the entire situation that was so messed up. “I'm standing right here in the office next to Delores and Carol.” Who had both returned to their work, pretending not to hear every word of the conversation. “Do you need me to come home?”

“No,” she said quickly. “I'm okay. Don't come home.”

“Sarah—”

But a loud clunk came through the receiver, and then more rustling noises.

“Sarah,” my mom said, her voice muffled. “You talked to Jace. Don't you want to come out now?”

My mom sighed, a long sad sound, and then spoke to me, her words clearer and more distinct. “She's stopped crying now, at least. But she's refusing to come out from under the bed.”

A fresh wave of guilt pummeled me.

“Do you want me to come home?” I asked.

“I can't leave her here to—”

“I can find a ride.”

In the silence, I could sense my mom weighing the pros and cons. Carol and Delores would never say anything about this, but my dad would be upset that our personal life had once again spilled all over church grounds. If I left without finishing the work I'd been assigned, that would only make it worse.

“No,” my mom said finally. “Stay there, finish working. She's calmer now.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, sounding more certain. “Dad will bring you home when he comes back for dinner before his meetings tonight. It's only a couple more hours. She'll be fine for that long. I'll have to eat those gummy bears I
found all by myself.” That last was pitched away from me and toward Sarah.

“Thanks, honey,” she said to me, distracted. “We'll see you when you get home.” The phone clicked in my ear.

My shoulders sagged, aching with the release of tension I hadn't felt until that second.

I handed the phone to Delores, and she busied herself with untangling the cord.

I clenched my fists against the rage and despair pushing up from my stomach, as if they were something I could actually fight. Why did we always have to pretend everything was okay? Why couldn't we just admit that we were falling apart? If we couldn't do that, I wasn't sure how we were going to get better.

“Jace?” Delores asked from behind me, her voice full of worry.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” I said grimly. What else was there to say?

“HEY!”

A french fry bounced off my cheek and landed in the congealing grease on my pizza slice.

I looked up from my tray, startled.

“What's up, bro?” Zach asked, as he wiped his hands on a napkin. “I called your name, like, three times.”

“Just tired,” I said. “Long day.”

A burst of laughter came from the other end of our cafeteria table, where Caleb, Derek, Scott, and Matt were all talking about something that seemed to involve fireworks and a poorly placed sofa cushion.

“There's tired, and then there's the walking dead,” Zach said around a mouthful of burger. “You are the latter today, my friend. What's up?”

Audrey gave a nervous bark of laughter, pushing her hair back from her face. “Zach.”

I shook my head, negating her concern over Zach's choice of words.

My anger from yesterday afternoon had faded, leaving a heavy gray haze over everything. My dad had driven me home in a mutual tense silence. Then the three of us had taken turns trying to talk Sarah into coming out from under the bed. I'd listened to my parents alternate threats with cajoling, getting nowhere.

When it was my turn, I sat next to the bed so she knew I was there. I had no idea what was going on in her little head. I could hear the sound of her crayons scribbling across paper, though. Maybe she, like me, couldn't talk about it yet. Or ever.

But no matter what, sometimes it was nice to know that another person was nearby. That you weren't alone.

I stayed until my leg began to ache from sitting in one position, and then when I started to get up, Sarah's hand appeared from under the bed ruffle, patted the back of my hand twice—as if she were the one comforting me—and then vanished again.

It wasn't much, but it was something.

Then, this morning, she'd been back to her ghost routine, drifting through the house in her pajamas, with
Patsie and blanket in hand. But neither of my parents had complained, because she'd crawled out from under the bed, eaten a bowl of cereal, and gotten dressed for school, all without argument and while still avoiding me. Sarah needed help. But I couldn't get my mom and dad to see it.

If Eli had been here, I would have been able to tell him and he would have figured out how to bring it up, what to say to get them to understand. But then again, if Eli had been here, none of this would have been an issue.

“What do you think happens after you die?” I asked Audrey and Zach.

Their shocked silence was louder, for a moment, than all the noise of the cafeteria around us.

“Sarah freaked out yesterday,” I continued. “About Eli, I think. I'm trying to figure out what to tell her, how to help her. But everyone keeps talking about heaven or being in a ‘better place.' And I just . . . I'm not sure.”

Zach and Audrey exchanged uncertain glances; then Zach forced an uncomfortable laugh. “Isn't this kind of your dad's territory?”

I shrugged.

Audrey set her fork down on her tray and reached out to pat my shoulder hesitantly. “I'm sure Eli is okay, wherever he is, Jace. And Sarah will understand that eventually.”

“Yeah.” Zach nodded vigorously, his hair flopping in his eyes.

“The most important thing is that you remember him and keep him a part of your life that way,” Audrey added. “That's how you help Sarah.”

It sounded so familiar, the same thing everyone said at every funeral ever. To the point of being meaningless.

“You can't let yourself get caught up in this stuff. You gotta focus on being here, being alive,” Zach said. “That's what Eli would want you to do.”

Was it? My brother was dead, and it was possible he wasn't in a better place, that he was just gone. No one seemed willing to discuss that possibility.

Except, maybe, Thera Catoulus.

I'd missed her presence in Pussy PE—in Exempt today.

I kept looking to her seat, registering her absence, in the same way you poke your tongue at the soft, sore spot left behind when a tooth falls out.

I wasn't sure what I wanted from her, or why I felt a pull toward her. What was it about her?

It was clear she despised me and what I'd done to Eli. I should be staying as far from her as possible. What kind of idiot would seek that hatred out?

“Maybe you're right,” I said finally. But it didn't
feel
right. That's what was tripping me up. Though these days, very little felt right.

After another awkward gap in conversation, Audrey sat up straighter in her chair, as if she were taking charge of a poorly run meeting.

“So. We should talk about Spring Formal,” she announced.

Zach groaned, which earned him a shoulder smack.

“It's only seven weeks away,” she said. “We need to start making plans.”

Just like that, the conversation about Eli was over. I couldn't blame Audrey and Zach; before the accident, I wouldn't have wanted to talk about this either. Actually, I would have actively avoided it.

“You're the one who needs to make plans. Dress shopping, hair appointments . . .” Zach waved his hand dismissively. “I've got the rest of it figured out.”

“Really?” Audrey asked suspiciously.

“Sure.” He shrugged. “I'll borrow the family roadster—more space for everyone—and then we'll hit up that crappy drive-in place Jace loves.”

I listened to them, feeling oddly removed from the moment, like I was watching it on a movie screen.

Audrey narrowed her eyes at Zach. “You'd better be kidding.”

Zach held his hands up in defense. “Yes, I'm kidding,” he said with some exasperation. “But you know Coach is going to have us in practice until the last second, right?”
He looked to me for support before realizing his mistake.

He and Audrey froze, looking stricken. “Sorry, bro,” Zach managed after a moment.

“It's okay,” I said. “I wasn't much for dancing before anyway. Now I might actually hurt someone else or myself.” I clunked my cast against the floor carefully for emphasis.

They laughed, as I'd intended them to, and the tension disappeared. But instead of sharing in their relief, I felt more alone. The gap between us was only growing wider. It was a truth I'd been trying to ignore for the last couple of days, digging in like a splinter: I didn't belong here anymore.

The person I'd been before the accident was gone, and there was no getting him back.

WEDNESDAY EVENING LENTEN SERVICES
weren't well attended, which was why we were at the original church building rather than the auditorium. The organ played intro music, the sound muted so as not to drown out the various preservice conversations. My mom, Sarah, and I were earlier than we'd been on Sunday; the narthex was filled with people chatting with one another before they took a seat.

So far, I wasn't feeling the rush of sickening panic—like I was falling face-first into a gaping chasm and couldn't catch myself—that I'd felt on Sunday. That was something, at least.

I watched the smiling faces around me, some of them more lined with worry or stress than others, as we moved closer to the sanctuary.