For This Life Only (4 page)

I lurched awkwardly onto my back and turned to face my mom to plead my case. But she looked tired, years older, her face sagging and pale above the bright blue robe that Eli, Sarah, and I had given her for Christmas. Her blond hair, a shade or two darker than ours . . . than mine, appeared washed out and gray.

Worry, fear, and grief were etched in the lines around her eyes and mouth. And I'd put them there.

“It's important to get back into a routine,” she said gently.

“Important for who?” I asked. But I already knew. If I went back to school without going to church today, it would be perceived as a “rebellion,” even if I didn't mean
it to be. There would be talk, some of it behind closed doors and in private phone calls, but some in concerned visits to my dad's office, who'd have to deal with it all. And the pressure would only intensify.

Whether it was difficult for me to step back into a life that was all sharp edges and no soft landing places, a life that no longer felt like mine—that didn't matter.

“Jace, I know this isn't easy . . . ,” Mom began.

I ignored her, my attention caught by movement in the hallway behind her. Sarah, in her nightgown, with her reddish curls in a staticky bed head halo, hovered at the edge of the shadows in the doorway, staring at me and clutching her ragged stuffed dog. Patsie's left ear was matted and worn from years of Sarah rubbing it as she fell asleep. Sarah also had the frayed afghan that served as her blankie hoisted over her small shoulder, like she was going into battle against the monsters in the closet. She hadn't carried either of them regularly in a couple of years, but now they were her constant companions.

Mom followed my gaze toward the doorway.

“Sares,” I said, my voice creaky with the effort of trying not to scare my sister away.

But like every other time, she bolted soundlessly as soon as I spoke to her. It was like living with a little ghost.

Clearly, I wasn't the only one struggling with my parents' “get back to normal” strategy.

My mother sighed, then turned back to me.

“If we go to early service, it'll be in the sanctuary,” she reminded me. “Not the auditorium.”

The auditorium, where they held all the largest services, including my brother's funeral. The one I, broken and barely coherent and in the hospital, had not been able to attend.

My mom had offered to show me photos people had taken, but I couldn't look at them. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Seeing Eli, pale and still, laid out in his dark blue suit, surrounded by stands of white lilies—it was too much. So was the weekly visit she made to his grave, one she invited me to make with her every time.

My last memory of Eli was of him alive, and it was burned into my brain.

His face is pale in the dashboard lights, his eyes wide with panic, and his mouth is open as if he's shouting at me. Or
for
me.

As disturbing as that mental image was, I needed to keep it.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

My mom touched my shoulder, resting her hand there lightly. “Honey, as much as we miss him, we have to remember that Eli is in a better place.” She paused. “I'm just glad you were with him at the end, that he wasn't alone.”

With her words, the familiar flush of panic returned, and sweat broke out on my skin. Without any help from
me, my mom seemed to have latched on to a very specific, comforting idea of what happened that night: Eli and I together at the end of a long dark tunnel, sharing one last hug before he headed into the light and I returned here to resume my life.

Not even close.

I opened my eyes. “Mom, do you think . . . I mean, is Eli . . .” I couldn't find the words, and trying to formulate the question in my head made me want to reach for my pain pills and blot the world out. “How do you know that he's in a better place?” I managed finally.

My mom frowned. “Because that's what we believe.”

“But how do you
know
?” I persisted. “How do you know he's not just . . . gone?” My voice broke.

Her breath escaped in a tight gasp. “Because we do, Jacob,” she said sharply, but her eyes flooded with tears.

“Mom . . .”

“Please.” She stepped back from me, her hands folded and clutched at the center of her chest, like she was applying pressure to a wound.

Guilt flashed through me, lightning fast and hot. She already couldn't handle what had happened. Dumping more on her would be wrong.

“I'm sorry,” I said immediately, my eyes burning. “I'm sorry, Mom.” Saying it wasn't enough, and repeating it didn't help. It would never be enough.

“It's all right,” she said, but she wouldn't look at me.

With an effort, I pushed myself up into a sitting position. “I'll go. Okay?” It was the least I could do, the smallest amends I could make for everything I'd messed up.

She nodded, blinking rapidly, her eyes red and bright with tears. “Thank you.” As she turned to leave, she paused, glancing back at me with a strained and trembling smile. “You never know,” she said, “it might help, Jacob. Just to be there, to pray.”

I doubted that.

But I nodded, because that was what she needed to see. And because some part of me really wanted her to be right.

•  •  •

As it turned out, agreeing to go to church and actually getting there were two different things.

We were late. It was 8:03, and we were hurrying from the overflow parking lot, a block and a half away from the original church. My mom had offered to drop me off, but there was no way I was going in alone. Not today.

“Come on, Sarah,” my mom said over her shoulder with an anxious frown, her forehead furrowed with deep wrinkles. She'd already chewed off most of her pale pink lipstick. I'd watched her do it as she searched in vain for a closer place to leave the minivan. “Stop dawdling.”

But Sarah, silent and holding tight to Patsie, was only
a step or two behind her, far closer than I was.

I grimaced and put more effort into swinging my left leg forward, my shambling attempt at walking.

I had more metal in me now than the most dedicated body modifier: pins, plates, rods, and screws of all sizes in my elbow and tibia. A freaking hardware store beneath my skin.

The cast on my leg was removable at least, which made it easier to shower, and I'd ditched the splint on my elbow, with my doctor's permission, a couple of weeks ago.

But I was still moving way slower than usual. Doing things right-handed—because the healing bones and torn ligaments in my left arm restricted the use of my left hand—took more time. Brushing my teeth was an ordeal that involved bending my neck to bring my mouth to the toothbrush. And I could only button up about half my shirt without help. There was no question we were late because of me.

“It's fine,” my mom said, as much to herself as to Sarah and me. “We'll sneak in the side aisle. Not a problem.” She flashed us a reassuring smile that was a little too tight around the edges.

As we rounded the corner and the wooden double doors of the front entrance came into view, my mom reached back and caught Sarah's hand, tugging her forward.

Tension increased in me with every step, and the
orange juice I'd gulped down with my pills burned in my stomach, so much so that it felt like steam might pour out if I opened my mouth.

Like holy water on a vampire.

My mom's heels clicked up the stone stairs, Sarah shuffling her feet to keep up.

You can do this,
I told myself. But I didn't sound so sure.

For about the millionth time since the accident, I wished for Eli, wished that he were walking next to me, telling Mom not to worry, saying that everyone was late sometimes. And then quietly urging me to hurry up.

The dull and constant ache in my chest sharpened at the renewed realization that he would never do that again. That I was truly on my own, not only at church, but everywhere. Forever.

As I reached the steps, a bright blue neon sign flickered to life in the front window of the small house across the street, drawing my attention.

Psychic Mary's.

For the first time, I wondered if Mary turned on the sign on Sunday, at church time, deliberately, to signal that she considered herself an equal, a spiritual competitor, and she was open for business too.

“Come on, Jace,” my mom called from the top of the stairs, a barely disguised edge of panic in her voice. Her
mouth remained fixed in a polite smile, in case anyone was watching.

She tugged at one of the heavy doors, the ornate, twisted metal handle almost as thick as my wrist, but it barely budged.

“Wait,” I said, levering myself up the stairs, my progress painful and slow. “I'll help you.”

An usher appeared in the small gap my mom had created with her efforts, and pushed the door open the rest of the way, holding it for her and Sarah.

Once they were inside, he moved out onto the landing and stood with his back against the door, keeping it from closing, while he waited for me with a beatific smile.

The familiar smell of church—candle wax, wood polish, and old paper—drifted past him. It was a scent I would know anywhere. Today, it made my heart beat too fast, in anticipation and sickening fear.

“Welcome back, young man,” the usher said when I reached the threshold. I probably should have known his name, but I didn't. Eli was always way better at that kind of thing.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the bulletin he handed me, my hand shaking. Hopefully he'd think the trembling was part of my injuries.

The cover this week was a simple line drawing in black and white: an outline of Jesus standing up in a boat, his
hand extended toward the rising waves that were threatening to swamp the vessel, while the cowering disciples watched in amazement. Their eyes were blank circles, to indicate shock.

To me, they just looked empty.

With effort, I made myself step up and into the narthex, and the usher carefully pulled the door closed after me.

“Jace,” my mom whispered.

I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the sudden dimness, and saw her waiting with Sarah and another usher at the right side door to the sanctuary. Through the glass windows, I could see my dad in front of the altar, in his black suit and white clerical collar for the traditional service and with his dark curly hair gelled into TV-ready status for the later services. We'd missed the entire processional and likely the opening prayer.

My mom waved me forward, the urgency clear in her eyes.

There is no “sneaking” anywhere when you're the pastor's family, especially when the pew designated as yours is two from the front.

Avoiding the sight of that pew, one that would still feel empty even once the three of us were sitting in it, I joined my mother and Sarah at the door to the sanctuary. As soon as the usher pulled the door open, my dad's voice, jovial and warm, poured out.

“. . . will be meeting at seven o'clock in the library on Tuesday. Refreshments will be provided. Charles Shaw has promised there will be cookies this time. No more fruitcake leftovers!”

There was an appreciative titter from the congregation.

The timing wasn't going to get any better for us to barge in.

My mom crossed the threshold, from the tile of the narthex to the carpeted sanctuary aisle, her shoulders straight and her smile firmly affixed, guiding Sarah in front of her.

I followed reluctantly.

The sanctuary was an enormous open space, filled with bright light that poured in through stained glass set high in the brick walls. Three columns of dark wooden pews with red velvet cushions lined the room. And on either side of the altar, there were more pews in the transepts.

Banners hung on stands at intervals in both side aisles, including the one we walked down. Most of them were a garish gold and purple for Lent. I'd missed all of Epiphany.

An ornate cross in gold was bolted to the back wall, dominating the space behind the altar.

I couldn't remember a time when I wasn't in this building almost every day. First when my grandpa was pastor, then my dad. We belonged here, even when that belonging felt more claustrophobic than comforting.

But today, the sanctuary felt strangely fake, like a set in the movie of my life. It was a perfect reproduction and yet was missing something essential at the core.

Despair spiraled through me.

The whispers started in the back rows and moved forward as I limped in behind my mom and Sarah.

With every step, it grew harder to breathe. I couldn't hear what they were saying about me, but I could imagine.
His fault. Got his brother killed. Reckless, irresponsible behavior. At a party with drinking!

“Next week, we'll have an update on our youth mission trip to Guatemala,” my dad continued, his smooth patter unfailing, despite the disruption we were causing. “And in two weeks, the senior high youth group will be gathering for pizza and prayer in the auditorium. Please see Kathy or Keith to register.”

We were halfway down the aisle when someone close to me at the end of a pew whispered, “God bless you.”

I stiffened, almost stumbling in surprise.

It spread from there. “Welcome back.” “So good to see you.” “We're so sorry about Eli.” “We've been praying for you.” All voiced in hushed tones so as not to interrupt my dad, who continued to read through the announcements.

At the front of the church, in a pew behind ours, a head turned to stare.

Leah, Eli's girlfriend. Her gaze was fixed on me. She
was pale and visibly trembling, but that wasn't the worst part.

The expression on her face was a mix of wrenching grief, raw pain, and the tiniest portion of terrible hope.

I knew that look. I'd witnessed it on the faces of my family, especially in the first few days after the accident. Eli and I were twins. Seeing me was like seeing Eli, only not. I was an inescapable reminder of what they'd lost, a truckload of salt rubbed into an open and bleeding wound.