Some of the Parts (16 page)

monday
10/6

I
t's dark on Monday morning, and cold, so I ride to school with Mel. It turns out that having extra time to think makes waiting to hear from Gerald, Sandra, and Dr. Fikri even more excruciating, so I let Mel provide distractions. She talks incessantly about song ideas for Scud, band politics, and the best ways to torment Amy, Fiona, and Zoey. And about the upcoming taxidermy show at the town hall on Saturday. She is certain, she says, that her raccoon-and-cat tableau will take first prize in the high school category. I think I hear something else in her voice, though. A wavering. I ignore it. I can't witness anyone falling apart right now. I can't save anyone else from going over a cliff when I may be nearing the edge of my own.

Dad waves to us from the window as we drive away. I have been finding notes in his study, lists of books about healing your family and overcoming personal tragedy and installing radiant heating in your floors. I guess he's still thinking about improving the house, as well as fixing us. Or is he making plans for a new house? Mom talks in her journal about being back at work, about feeling ready—almost—to see clients and spend time in other people's houses. But she doesn't say
in Molton.
She doesn't say
with Susan and Michelle.
She has also mentioned the argument she had with my father about the letters from the recipients, and hints at possibly pursuing things on her own.

So we are all moving forward in our own ways. And we are all keeping secrets, too.

When I get to school, Principal Hunter and Ms. Doberskiff are huddled in the foyer together, their faces masked in earnest concern. Hunter waves me over. They have been waiting for me. Mel quickly exits down a side hallway, in case she is in danger of being roped into whatever is about to happen.

“Can you come into my office for a minute, Tallie?” Hunter says. Ms. Doberskiff glares at him, a fleeting condemnation.

“Good morning,” she says to me pointedly. “Did you have a good weekend?”

The emotional minefield of my weekend—interring Nate's ashes, facing Jason Rice, Dad's parental intervention—would probably send her into a complete seizure of joy. I don't think Ms. Doberskiff wishes our misfortunes upon us, but they keep her busy. And employed.

“Lovely,” I tell her.

“Shall we?” Hunter sweeps his hand toward his office like I've just won a prize on a game show. As he and Ms. Doberskiff move away from the Star Students display, something makes me turn my head, almost as if someone has put a hand to my face and moved it. And then I see what their bodies had concealed: that the Star Students are gone, that Nate's picture has been replaced.

So. This remembrance has run its course. I am suddenly and strangely grateful that Chase has Nate in his binder—even if I think his mission is misguided and naive, it's a relief to know that if mine doesn't succeed, there's a kind of consolation prize.

I follow Principal Hunter dutifully, and he takes his usual seat behind his desk. This leaves me and Ms. Doberskiff on the other side, sitting next to each other as if we're some kind of team.

“I'll get right to the point,” Hunter says. “I have had some troubling information from another student about some…erratic behavior from you, Tallie. Behavior that borders on harassment.”

“Who said that?” I thought I was keeping most of my erratic ways inside my own head, and I've hardly spoken to anyone other than Chase and Mel.

“Well, I'm not at liberty to—”

“You and Amy used to be such good friends,” Ms. Doberskiff chirps. “I'm sure I could help you work this out.”

Amy.
I can't blame her for not wanting to talk about Nate. I avoided it for months. But I didn't think she'd go to Hunter, if only to avoid being seen entering or leaving his office and tagged as a suck-up.

He ignores Ms. Doberskiff. “An altercation at the carnival was mentioned, as well as a brief incident at the ice cream stand. We all understand what you've been through, of course, but it's important that
all
students adhere to the school conduct code and respect one another's boundaries.”

I guess sending her the playlist is out.

Ms. Doberskiff offers, “And you missed the Bridges meeting last week.”

This is a fact. I make no excuses.

Principal Hunter clears his throat. “You will remember, Tallie, that you and your parents and I spoke at the beginning of the year and agreed that attending Bridges was a pivotal part of the plan for your…” He pauses, searching for the perfect administrative term. “Reentry.”

“And your
healing,
” Ms. Doberskiff adds. Hunter nods reluctantly.

“To that end,” he says, “we wanted to catch you first thing this morning and make sure that you will be at today's meeting.”

“I won't be, actually.” I wasn't aware that I had made this decision until I say it out loud. Ms. Doberskiff immediately starts stammering, “But—but…” Hunter simply raises one bushy eyebrow and then crosses his arms over his chest. Or tries to.

“I see,” he says. “And why is that?”

Yes, why is that?
I ask myself. I could try to appeal to Hunter's logical sensibilities, or Ms. Doberskiff's hyperemotional ones, but the real answer is more straightforward. “Because I don't want to,” I tell him.

I am testing the limits of their sympathy. I've been a fascination, a project for all of them, since the accident. My teachers, my parents, my former friends—they all think they know me better than I do. What happens when the project pushes back?

“You understand that I will have to inform your parents of your decision,” Principal Hunter says.

“I do,” I tell him. “I understand very well.” And then I stand up and ask if I can go to homeroom. Hunter nods. Ms. Doberskiff is apparently still reeling from my announcement.

“Don't worry,” I assure her. “Something terrible will happen to someone else any day now.”

My heart has been beating more quickly all day, it feels like, since my meeting with Hunter and Ms. Doberskiff. I wonder how long Hunter waited before calling my parents, whether he called Mom or Dad, what they said. I wonder if I've just pushed myself a giant step closer to being sent on some kind of therapeutic wilderness retreat. I didn't see Chase in school today, so I'm still stuck waiting for a verdict on the Great Hacking Project and whether it's going to get us anywhere.

Mel has band practice after school—she was oddly thrilled when I gave her my playlist of songs for Scud to cover, which I titled “How to Be Unoriginal,” and it has had the added benefit of steering her away from everything I'm not telling her. I'm living dangerously. I'm tempting fate. Adrenaline and impatience are a nasty combination.

Red Circle Day glares at me from the calendar. Nine more days before the verdict is handed down. I duck into Dad's study and use his computer to check the email account I set up in Mom's name. Gerald has written back, finally. He gives no reason for not having replied more quickly, which seems a bit rude, but at least I know now that I didn't scare him away. He shares that he lives in rural Pennsylvania, which is too far away for me to see him in person. But it tells me that at least one of Nate's organs was flown out of Boston to another hospital. Probably more, based on what Dr. Abbott told me.

It has been hard to restrain myself from just asking straight out whether Gerald knows where the other recipients are. I thought my question about finding a “community” was pretty subtle, but his response makes it clear that he has seen right through it.

Sarah,
he writes. We are on a first-name basis now.

Naturally, you must be curious about the other fortunate recipients of your son's gift. As I'm sure you can understand, there are many levels of confidentiality in place to prevent any breach of protocol.

If only he knew that our entire correspondence is based on such a breach.

We are ostensibly prevented from knowing whether any of us share the same donor, but from time to time, our thirst for knowledge exceeds our respect. We do compare notes. Many of us have written to the families of our donors. If you might be willing to share with me the sources of any other letters you have received, I could confirm whether they were sent by anyone of my acquaintance.

But I don't have any other letters. Which means that Gerald's buddies have written to other families. Which means that none of the people the good professor is talking about have Nate's parts. Or they do, but they're not interested in finding out who he was.

Dammit.

The sensible, logical thing to do would be to send letters through the agency to the other recipients, right? But it could take weeks or even months for those people to write back, if they decided to at all, and I do not have that kind of time. And I would have to forge every word.

Plus, every day feels like a new chance to get caught. If my mother gets tired of waiting for a letter and calls Life Choice, or my father quits waiting for Red Circle Day and makes a preemptive declaration that we are moving, my chance to track down the recipients will vanish. This whole time, ever since the end of before, their parental instincts to nurture and protect and be responsible have been doing battle with their misery. Grief has made them selfish, weary. Complacent. But the clouds are parting, the lights are coming on again, and pretty soon my freedom will be crushed under the weight of their good intentions.

I am not the same. And I will not be cured of this, because if I am, Nate will disappear all over again.

Just when I'm nearly overtaken by the urge to hurl the computer out the window of Dad's study, I have a thought. I hit reply.

Gerald,

You are very perceptive. But I fear that my hopes of learning more about the destiny of my son's earthly body may come to nothing. I have not received any correspondence from Life Choice except for yours. I can tell you, however, that Nathaniel was airlifted to Boston after his accident, and it is likely that a few of his recipients reside there. If you could perhaps explore this possibility in your interactions with other transplant patients, I would be eternally in your debt.

Sincerely,

Sarah

I read it over. I think it hits the right tone, deferential but not too desperate. If he only knew.

Maybe someday I will get the chance to confess my sins. I will drive the many hours to Pennsylvania when I am old enough, and am not afraid. I will knock on Professor Gerald Rackham's door and tell him only what is true. I will apologize for misleading him and explain why I needed to do so.

I will know what to say by then.

I will speak in my own voice.

And he will forgive me everything.

The house is too quiet, pressing its silence against me, wrapping around me like a straitjacket. No one knows I came home, no one will know if I leave again, so I throw myself back outside and get on my bike and start pedaling. Without choosing a direction or a destination. I just go.

The air is edged with cold and the cloudless sky arcs above me. The sound of the leaves crunching under my wheels is like hands crushing paper, and after a few minutes I stop to pull Matty out of my back pocket and use him to drown out the noise. My earbuds won't stay in my ears if I put him back in my jeans and I don't have any pockets in the sweater I'm wearing, so I tuck him into my bra, next to my heart, to keep him safe.

I ride as the crisp leaves flee their branches and the blue sky swallows the world. I ride and I ride and then I stop, because without knowing where I wanted to go, I found it.

The doors to St. Anne's are like the doors to every church, heavy and carved, with enormous handles that make my hands look impossibly small and fragile. Oversized things are inconsiderate this way, shrinking us with their power. This is why, I think, little kids like dollhouses so much. They get to feel huge for once. Not like I do when I walk into the church and am overtaken by dark wood and the height of pillars, and the light through the stained glass somehow seems brighter than the sun outside. I take my earbuds out, wind the cord into a nest, and tuck it into my shirt before I get all the way inside. Another secret to carry.