Signs of You (19 page)

Kate sighs. “
Why
couldn't he just forgive his dad? Or at least hug him or something.” She opens her door. But she doesn't get out. “So, what do we do now?”

“If you guys don't hear from him in another hour . . . call the cops,” I say.

“What do you mean ‘you guys'? You going somewhere?” Noah asks from the back.

“Yes,” I say. “And can you hand me the hula girl?”

Noah hands the doll to me, and I slap her on the dash. I gently f lick her hips. As promised, she shakes like crazy.

“She works,” I say with a half-smile.

Noah eyes me in the rearview. Suspicious. “You all right?” he asks.

I reach up and softly bat at Mom's hummingbird necklace that's hanging from the rearview mirror. The sunshine glints off the silver bird charm. “I am now,” I say. “Be back soon. And text me ASAP if you hear from Jay.”

“We'll keep looking,” Kate says. She starts to get out but then stops and glares at me. “Riley?” she says softly.

“Yeah?”

“So, taking off right now?” she says. “It kind of sucks. With Jay gone and everything else.”

I nod, summoning my resolve. And look back at the hummingbird necklace. Watch it sway in the sunlight. “You're right,” I say. “But I promise I'm not disappearing. This doesn't count as a bail; I'll be right back.”

“Okay,” Kate says slowly. She pulls in a deep breath. “But before you go, I just want to say sorry.”

The charm swings back and forth. Back and forth. Like it's keeping time to music I can't hear. “But why? You're not the one who's taking off right now.”

“Not this time,” she says. “But earlier. After you'd just seen your mom. And I'd seen Aunt Lilly. And all I could think about was being invited to join
air band.
I was a cool-girl suck-up. Which is totally a form of bailing on you. Just like Jay did.”

I look away from the necklace, and that's when I see it. A f litting spirit behind her eyes.

“So,” she says slowly. “Like I said, I'm . . . sorry.” Then she gives me this shaky little smile. She wipes her eyes so I can't see that she's teary, but I do. And then the shadow and the f lickers are gone. I'm looking at Kate again. At my best girlfriend. Clear as day.

I hadn't thought about it all that much, about her attempt to join air band. But she's right. It was a crappy thing that both Kate and Jay did. It sucked to sit there and watch them take off toward the safety of cool-girl shores, while I was beached with Noah in the audience. At least Noah stayed behind; at least he didn't bail on me and my totally broken self.

I catch sight of his blue eyes in the rearview mirror. He's watching me.

I look back at Kate. And I know something about her. About our friendship. I know that after living through the torture of Back on Track classes and counseling, after accepting so many days of lunch detention in solidarity like the screw-ups we are, after surviving Mother's Days with mounds and mounds of gum—I know, deep down in my messed-up heart that she'd have to do a lot more to wreck our friendship than try to join air band.

“Forgiven,” I say. “Totally and completely.” I wonder if she felt what I just saw. “And did you . . . feel something just now?”

Her eyes get wide. A little fearful. “Why? Did you see—?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

Noah leans into the front seat. “What did it feel like?”

“Um,” Kate says, looking at the hula girl, her grass skirt still as stone. “I guess I was just thinking about that day, about what we'd seen, and how much all of us have been through. Like, everything—the deaths, the funerals, the tanking grades, all of it—and now this. You know? And I got this
pit
in my stomach.”

“Like water hitting a stone?” Noah asks softly, his voice full of wonder.

Kate tilts her head and gives him a puzzled smile through her tears. “Yeah. Exactly like that. And I knew I needed to apologize for taking off that day. For the whole air band thing. I just . . . knew it. Does that make any sense?”

Of course it does
. A spirit just moved her, gave her a little jolt, a sign pointing the way. And she got it. She did what it wanted her to do. She squeezes my arm as she gets out of the car. Noah follows but lingers by the driver's side door and my open window.

“If you need us,” he says, “just text. We'll be there in a heartbeat.”

I drive down Fitzwater
Road, past Jay's house, and then head toward the Cuyahoga River. I stop just before the bridge, ease the car over to the side of the road and put it in park. I look again at the hummingbird necklace hanging from the rearview mirror. It's been the reminder I've felt I've needed all this time:
You aren't allowed to be happy. Not after all the heartache you caused.

That's when I feel it: chills all over my body. A sinking feeling so strong, it seems like falling. Goose bumps run so fast along my skin they almost sting. I sit like that, letting my feelings and thoughts bash into each other, letting them do whatever they need to do. I wait, quietly, for the truth to come. And it does. Like Noah says, it feels like a drop of water gently hitting a sponge, an idea that soaks into my bones, that f its just right, that frees me to move on.

I know exactly why I've never been able to take a joyride in my car, blast music, or let the wind whip through the open windows since Mom died. It's that I don't want to live and be happy if being happy means that I've gotten over her, gotten over losing her, moved on like she was just a passing thought. Her loss has become my connection to my dad, to my friends, to the world. It's almost become who I am. Almost.

I'm f illed with the urge to take the necklace down. I gently pull it off the mirror and hold it in my hand. I open the car door and walk to the center of the bridge. I lean against the green railing and watch the rushing water far below. Leaves and logs and crests of little waves pass underneath me. And like the river, a thought runs through my mind, fast and strong and unstoppable:

She was so focused on what was missing, that she missed what she had. That was the mistake. Not you
, I tell myself.
You
. . .
were the gift.

I think about St. Ignatius's secret, about how people leave this life and go on to the next. They don't cross if we don't pay attention. They get stuck if we don't do the things we're destined for. And I think about waiting. Waiting to live my life. Waiting for the pain to stop. Waiting around for Jay to like me. Waiting so long to tell him how I feel. Waiting to move on.

“Missing my life is no way to remember you,” I whisper. “Living is.”

I pull the bird charm gently to my lips and give it a kiss. I extend my arm and let the necklace dangle above the rushing water below.

And I let it go.

The silver chain arches and bends as it hurtles toward the water. There's a tiny splash when it hits the river and then it disappears beneath the murky water. The same feeling I had earlier when I was at home staring in the mirror f loods me again. It's familiar, it's known. I know exactly who's here.

Mom.

Her spirit is with me: f luttery, electric. And I know exactly what she wants me to do next.

I walk back to the car and slide behind the driver's seat. The necklace that has decorated the car for the past two years is now gone, and the only thing left is my hula girl. I give her hips a gentle nudge and she shakes like a crazy woman.

Go.

I turn on the radio. Loud. Then I roll down the windows. The music blares through the car speakers, and I pull the elastic out of my bun and let my hair tumble over my shoulders like kids f illing a playground at recess. Unruly. Free. I dig around in the middle of the console and f ind the sunglasses I never wear and put them on. I check to make sure no one's coming and then hit the gas pedal.

And with my mother inside my very own soul, we take a joyride
.
The wind whistles through the windows, tangling my hair. The hula girl goes crazy when I hit a bumpy patch. I keep my eyes on the road, but notice how big and bright and blue the sky is. I notice the smell of the summer air, how good it feels as my hair tickles my neck and shoulders. I catch sight of myself in the rearview mirror. I see glimpses of my mother behind my eyes. The best parts of her. The best parts of me. And I see something else I haven't seen in a long, long time.

Happiness looks good on you, Riley.

My heart f lutters like hula girl hips, and I feel a brief brushing light of forgiveness, a revelation that nobody should take it all back. A thought that life is complicated, that sometimes our dreams don't turn out like we planned, but that it's worth it. That I was worth it. That life is bigger than loss.

I feel my mother's spirit, like my heart is bursting with joy. And she's not making me feel guilty. She's not scolding me for letting her go that night. For not having all the answers, for not always knowing what to do. She's not making me feel like a mistake. Right now, in this car, I
do
feel like a gift to her, like I was the most-known twist of her very own soul.

After this moment, I will not wonder if I should not have been; I will not wonder if my mother could have only known joy in her life if I hadn't been in it
.
And if I ever have a daughter of my own, she will not grow up with these doubts. She won't wonder if I'm unhappy because she isn't good enough. Because I will be happy. I will live. I will listen. I will not miss this life.

Mom wants it for me, too. I know it. She wants me to end this feeling of not good enough; she wants me to refuse to pass down some legacy of sadness, to f inally stand up and live the life I've been given, whatever it looks like, however it turns out. To trust that there will be signs to point the way. I edge a few miles past the speed limit and . . .

Goodbye, Riley.

And then I feel it, the tear that creeps out of my eye, that slides all the way down my cheek, the one that I know means Mom is gone. It's like a rush of wind slipping through an open door, and that door is me. My tears double and then triple, falling onto my jean shorts and soaking into the denim. I pull the car off the highway and come to a stop on the side of the road. I turn the music down.

I look up through the windshield into the summer Midwestern sky and imagine my mother hovering above me, f lying, f inally free. On her way, crossing from this life to the next. Through me. I hold my breath, terrif ied, waiting for the familiar hollowness in my bones, a dark, vacant cave as the wonderful
fullness
I feel in my soul disappears.

The pain does come, but it's followed by something unexpected. There's no guilt
.
I put my hand to my chest, let the tears fall one after the other—and I smile. In that true way, in that lived-through-it way, I know what I know: That to live and be happy doesn't mean I've forgotten her; it means the exact opposite—that I've remembered.

I drop my head to the steering wheel. I let the tears come; I don't f ight a single drop. My mother just left this world, and my new gift has taught me that the best thing to do is to just
feel it.
Not to live like my life depends on it, but to live like someone's afterlife does. To be one of the
portae ad caelum
that's open, always open.
I grip the wheel hard and let all of it wash over me, a jumble of feelings like madness in my heart—sadness, anger, emptiness, fullness, peace. Joy.

Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye.

I don't know how
long I sit there like that, just listening to the wind, to the cars, to the f irst sounds of a world my mother has f inally left. Over and over I think how I'm so grateful to have what I have. It won't drive me crazy, the way it did Peter Broomf ield, maybe even Jay's father. How could it? I know to listen for spirits, to try to discern all the feelings they give me. To notice the little nudges, the signs on my way. I learned how to speak spirit, how to hear what my mother needed say. And I learned it just in time to be her doorway.

A sound breaks through the soft music on the radio.

A text. I get a text.

I look around for my phone and can't f ind it. I hear the bing-bong text noise again and realize it has fallen under my seat. I dig around and run my hand over a few stray pens and gum wrappers, but f inally pull the phone free. It lights up as I touch the screen.

The message is from Noah.

Found Jay. At The Fields. Get over here fast.

Chapter 20

Bat Boy

The Fields. It's a massive complex of public sports f ields: soccer, tennis, softball. But mainly, it's a baseball place. There are seven baseball diamonds total. We hadn't checked it before because I've never known Jay to go there. Plus, it's always locked up tight. Jay would've had to break in. Or jump the fence. It's insanely high. It makes the cemetery fence look like a kiddie gate.

I turn the ignition key and start the car, trying to imagine what Jay is doing at The Fields at least three beers in. Horrible images sail through my mind like arcing baseballs. I imagine him hanging from the stands or unconscious in the dugout. I hit the gas.

“Please, Jay,” I whisper as I steer the Wagon back onto the road. “Please be okay.”

The drive feels like it takes forever, and I feel so tired—from saying goodbye to Mom, from watching Jay miss his dad, from all this
feeling everything
all the time—but f inally, only ten minutes later, I pull into the parking lot and text Noah:

Here.

How do I get in? Climb over?

No answer. So I text one more time.

No answer again.

I hurry to the edge of the parking lot, looking for a way in. The gravel crunches under my shoes. I look down and see wads of gum and random food wrappers of all kinds. I come to the fence around the tennis court and spot a hole cut into the metal. Little bits of fence are clipped and pulled back.

Why here, Jay? Why here?

I bend down and squeeze through. The metal pulls at my T-shirt and I get a few tiny cuts on my arm. I run a hand over the scrapes as I look around and get my bearings. In the distance, I see the baseball diamonds and start walking. I pass f ield after f ield; the deserted stands and dugouts are eerie in their silence. Like they're waiting for people to return, aching for the happy screams of little leaguers and parent-coaches.

And then I see Jay. He's on the last baseball f ield, standing by home plate, a baseball bat in one hand and a beer in the other. Empty bottles are strewn around his feet. I walk onto the f ield.

“Come on,” I hear him shout. “Throw it.”

Noah is at the pitcher's mound, winding up. But instead of throwing a real pitch, he tosses the ball underhand. It sails slowly toward Jay in a sad, wobbly arc. The only way it could be easier to hit is if it was an inf latable beach ball. Noah's no star athlete, but it's a lame throw even for him. Jay misses, not surprisingly. Like,
royally
misses. He swings the bat with his right hand and a little beer spills out of the beer bottle in his left. His feet cross, one over the other, he teeters and almost goes down. Kate runs over and steadies him.

“Aw, maaaan,” Jay says, smiling. “So close! I can
taste
the homer, yo!”

I wonder how long they've been at this game. Throw Underhand to the Drunk. It's a new one—one I hope we won't have to play again any time soon.

“He hit it yet?” I ask.

“Nope,” Kate says. She's still got her hands on Jay, holding him up.

“You're messing me up,” Jay whines at her. “Let go.”

“Fine, fall on your face,” Kate mutters. She lets him go and he wobbles a bit but f inds his balance. “Like you did three times in the last twenty minutes.” She retreats and leans up against the blue dugout, then shoots me a weary glance. “You haven't missed much, believe me.”

I can smell the beer on Jay's breath when I get within a f ive-foot radius of his “batting stance.” Which right now involves a desperate lean to the left and a pitiful hunched-over posture.

“Dude,” I say to him. “You're a mess
.
”

“RIIIIILEY!” he says, beaming. “You're HERE! Awesome. We're playing
baseball.
We should try out for a
sports team
. It's AMAZING. Isn't it AMAZING?”

“Totally amazing,” I say f latly. I notice how shiny-new his bat looks. “So that's what you were shopping for at Dick's? A bat and a baseball?”

“Hell yeah! And a mitt! Like my pops used to have. Just like my pops.” He turns up his beer and drains it. “We used to play. And watch games on TV. It was
so cool
. Now I know why he always drank so much beer! Beer makes it SO FUN. Here,” he drops the bat to his side and careens toward the case of Bud behind home plate. He pulls out a bottle and holds it out for me. “Have one, Riley. You'll be
amazed
.”

I stare at him blankly and raise my eyebrows. “The cousin with the fancy printer, right? That's how you got the case of beer. The fake ID.”

“Are you a detective? I feel like I've asked you that before.” Jay screws off the cap, apparently deciding to keep the beer for himself. Then he picks up the bat again. “You'd make a
great
detective.”

Kate sits down in the grass and whips her hair into an elastic. “He's been like this since we got here. We tried to cut him off, but he got kind of nasty when we attempted to take his beer away. Wasn't pretty.”

Noah comes in from the pitcher's mound. “You're just in time for a round of Entertain the Drunk,” he says sadly. “Lucky you.”

“Just please tell me he didn't cut that hole in the fence?” I say. “Tell me it was already there.”

“Did you see his hand?” Noah asks.

I look at Jay's left hand, which other than having a death-grip on the bottle of beer, looks totally normal. But then I notice the right. It's a mess. He's got several cuts, a huge scab has formed over a few knuckles, and there are little streaks of blood on his shirtsleeve.

“So he also bought wire cutters,” I say, sighing. I walk up to Jay and reach for the bat. “Can I see?”

He wobbles for a second and looks at me suspiciously. “You'll give it back?”

“Of course,” I say.

“Okay. Here.”

I gently take the bat and hand it to Noah. I hold Jay's hand in mine and look at the cut. It looks angry and painful, but it doesn't look like he needs stitches. Maybe just some Neosporin and Tylenol when the beer wears off.

I look behind Jay, toward the main pavilion in the complex. I imagine a security guard emerging at any moment. I worry someone will spot the vandalized fence and call the cops. I'm surprised there isn't a guard watching the f ield in the f irst place. Plus, what the hell would we say if we were caught?

Well, Off icer. My friend Jay here is pretty upset. His father just crossed to the other side, vanishing for all eternity right in front of Jay's eyes. His dad asked for forgiveness, but Jay completely screwed up and let his father leave this world without it. So, as you can see, he's had a rough day. Actually, we all have. How about you just give him a ticket and let us get on our way?

Kate joins me beside Jay. “I saw a spirit in and out of him for like the f irst twenty minutes we were here,” she says, as if he weren't present. “Maybe we can just explain that to the cops, no problem. We'll just let them know that our beloved but damaged friend here let an evil spirit convince him to get super wasted and break into a ballpark. I'm sure the cop will understand.”

“You saw a spirit?” Jay asks. “No way! Awesome! I missed another one. I'm
so bad
at hearing them. So amazingly bad!” Then he starts this horrible fake-laughing thing. And then it kind of changes into something else, something more like weeping. “Did you know my dad's gone?” he asks. He looks so pitiful all of a sudden. Almost like the little boy who found his dad dead at the bottom of the basement stairs. “Like, really gone?”

Noah walks over and gives Jay a hug. Another real one, not a bro hug. He squeezes his friend tightly and lets go. “We know, man,” Noah says. “We know. It's going to be okay. Let's just get you home. You need a shower and about a gallon of water.”

“You know what else?” Jay asks, pulling away from Noah. “I f igured something out.” He takes a long swig of beer. “Think about it. My dad could see spirits. Just like Peter. Just like we can. Because he wore the cross necklace, too. He had to deal with seeing this his whole life but didn't tell anybody. Couldn't. They wouldn't believe him. He needed to f igure out that symbol, to f igure it all out—” He stops and holds up the beer high in the air, like he's giving a toast. “No wonder he tried to drown it all out with booze. Can't blame him. But you know what? I did. I totally blamed him.”

Jay looks at Noah, and then at me, and then at Kate. His brown eyes are rimmed with red and full of tears. I feel like I can still see the ten-year-old boy that he used to be. The one who watched baseball on TV with his dad, the one who rolled his eyes when his dad would try to talk about the cross necklace in the living room, why it was so valuable, why
nobody should ever touch it
. The one who wondered what was so magical about the liquid in his dad's martini glasses, why he always had to have one. Always.

“I'm sorry, man,” Noah says, steadying Jay again. “But let's get you home. Okay?”

Jay looks up at the sky with goodbye written all over his face. Then he looks back at Noah.

“Okay,” Jay says softly. “But bring the beer.”

We take Jay to
his house and—no surprise—his mother isn't home. Kate gets the key from under the mushroom and opens the door. Jay has one arm around me and one arm around Noah, and together we guide him towards his bedroom.

“In the movies they always put people in the shower when they're wasted,” Kate says. “With their clothes on. Always with their clothes on. Think that has merit?”

“Let's get naked!” Jay says. His breath nearly knocks me over. It's not only beer, but also something salty, something meaty, like . . . beef jerky. He must have had some leftover.

We pause at Jay's doorway.

“I say we bathe him fully clothed,” Noah says to me over Jay's head as if Jay is not
right here, hanging onto our necks like we're human crutches. Kate and I both nod.

The three of us manage to get Jay into the bathtub—clothes on—and he curls up in a ball and rests his head against the cold tub rim.

“Love,” Jay says slowly. “
Love
this bathtub.”

“Engage the water,” Noah says. “I suggest cold.”

“Engaging,” Kate says as she cranks the shower on full blast. It sprays all over Jay—and us—and we expect him to sputter and spit and kind of snap out of his drunkenness.

Instead, he goes to sleep.

“Movies are just extended cultural lies,” Kate says. “Why do they have to deceive us at every turn? From Disney princes to drunken showers.
Movies suck
.”

We let him get good and soaked and then turn the water off. It takes all three of us to pull a sopping, half-unconscious Jay out of the tub and into his bedroom. We're about to put him into his bed, wet clothes and all, but then I stop.

“Hold up,” I mutter. “We can't put him in bed all wet like this. Like he's the uncool kid at a slumber party or something. That's just cruel.”

“Oh, god,” Noah says. “You want me to take off his pants. Okay. But I'm so going to hold this over his head
forever.
”

Noah holds Jay steady while Kate and I peel off his shirt, but then Noah goes to work on his jeans. It's not an easy job, pulling wet denim off a drunk person. But with effort Noah gets the job done.

“He can cope with sleeping in wet boxers,” Noah says. “That's where I draw the line.”

After tucking him in, we decide that it would
not
be a good idea to leave him alone in the house. I don't think he's drunk enough to have alcohol poisoning or anything, but you never know. Plus, we cannot
let him try to get up and drunkenly fall down the stairs like his dad did. I can't even stand the thought.

“We keep watch,” I say.

“I'm crashing on the nasty white sofa in the living room in front of the TV,” Kate says. “And letting CMT lull me into relaxation.”

“CMT?” Noah asks.

“Country music version of MTV,” I say, smiling.

“I'll be outside then,” Noah says.

“Dude, lay off the country music for once.” It's Jay. He's suddenly roused from his slumber to half-mumble a defense of Kate's music choice. He smiles and then blinks his eyes slowly open and closed. “We gotta go easy. There are some good songs.”

“Thanks, Jay,” Kate says. “Even though you're drunk, I appreciate the backup. Now, rest. We'll all be outside if you need us.”

“No. Riley,” he says. “Here.” He pats the bed next to him. “You two—outtie.” He slurs his words a little and points toward the door.

Noah looks at me and raises his eyebrows. “Guess Jay wants a meeting with you,” he says with a wistful smile. “Must have something important to say.”

“OMG,” Kate whispers. “Can we listen at the door?”

My heart pounds, but I roll my eyes. “Just go,” I say. “I'll be out in a minute.”

“We'll be right outside,” Kate says. “With cups held up against the door so we can eavesdrop.” She gives me a quick hug. “But wait. That works in the movies. Which probably means it
doesn't
work in real life.” She sighs and heads out the door.

Noah raises his eyebrows at me again, and I give him the trust -me-I-have-no-idea-what's-going-on look in return. The door swooshes closed, leaving Jay and me shrouded in awkward silence. I go over and sit on the bed.

“Is there water?” Jay f inally asks. I hand him the cup from his nightstand. “Awesome,” he says and drains it. After a deep breath, he f lops his head back down on the pillow. “I'm drunk.”

“I'm aware,” I say.

“I'm crap at this. You know that?”

I smile. “Sort of.”

“These spirits. Can't hear them. Just can't.” Jay groans. “What if I can't get over this? I mean, I messed up. Big.”