The Lovely Bones (33 page)

My mother sat with my father’s hand in hers for a long while. She thought how wonderful it would be to climb up on the fresh
hospital sheets and lie beside him. And how impossible.

She leaned close. Even under the smells of antiseptics and alcohol, she could smell the grassy smell of his skin. When she’d
left, she had packed her favorite shirt of my father’s and would sometimes wrap it around her just to have something of his
on. She never wore it outside, so it kept his scent longer than it might have. She remembered one night, when she missed him
most, buttoning it over a pillow and hugging it to her as if she were still a high school girl.

In the distance beyond the closed window she could hear the hum of far-off traffic on the highway, but the hospital was shutting
down for the night. Only the rubber soles of the night nurses’ shoes made sounds as they passed in the hallway.

Just that winter she had found herself saying to a young woman who worked with her at the tasting bar on Saturdays that between
a man and a woman there was always one person who was stronger than the other one. “That doesn’t mean the weaker one doesn’t
love the stronger,” she’d pleaded. The girl looked at her blankly. But for my mother what mattered was that as she spoke,
she had suddenly identified herself as the weaker one. This revelation sent her reeling. What had she thought all those years
but the opposite?

She pulled her chair as close to his head as she could and laid her face on the edge of his pillow to watch him breathing,
to see the flutter of his eye beneath his eyelid when he dreamed. How could it be that you could love someone so much and keep
it secret from yourself as you woke daily so far from home? She had put billboards and roads in between them, throwing roadblocks
behind her and ripping off the rearview mirror, and thought that that would make him disappear? erase their life and children?

It was so simple, as she watched him, as his regular breathing calmed her, that she did not even see it happening at first.
She began to think of the rooms in our house and the hours that she had worked so hard to forget spent inside of them. Like
fruit put up in jars and forgotten about, the sweetness seemed even more distilled as she returned. There on that shelf were
all the dates and silliness of their early love, the braid that began to form of their dreams, the solid root of a burgeoning
family. The first solid evidence of it all. Me.

She traced a new line on my father’s face. She liked the silvering of his temples.

Shortly after midnight, she fell asleep after trying as hard as she could to keep her eyes open. To hold on to everything
all at once while she looked at that face, so that when he woke she could say goodbye.

When her eyes were closed and they both slept silently together, I whispered to them:

Stones and bones;

snow and frost;

seeds and beans and polliwogs.

Paths and twigs, assorted kisses,

We all know who Susie misses…

Around two
A.M.
it began to rain, and it rained down on the hospital and on my old home and in my heaven. On the tin-roofed shack where Mr.
Harvey slept, it was raining too. As the rain beat its tiny hammers above his head, he dreamed. He did not dream of the girl
whose remains had been removed and were now being analyzed but of Lindsey Salmon, of the 5! 5! 5! hitting the border of elderberry.
He had this dream whenever he felt threatened. It had been in the flash of her soccer shirt that his life had begun to spin
out of control.

It was near four when I saw my father’s eyes open and saw him feel the warmth of my mother’s breath on his cheek even before
he knew she was asleep. We wished together that he could hold her, but he was too weak. There was another way and he took
it. He would tell her the things he had felt after my death—the things that came into his mind so frequently but that no one
knew but me.

But he did not want to wake her. The hospital was silent except for the sound of rain. Rain was following him, he felt, darkness
and damp—he thought of Lindsey and Samuel at the doorway, soaked and smiling, having run all that way to relieve him. He often
found himself repeatedly commanding himself back to center. Lindsey. Lindsey. Lindsey. Buckley. Buckley. Buckley.

The way the rain looked outside the windows, lit up in circular patches by the lights in the hospital parking lot, reminded
him of the movies he had gone to see as a boy—Hollywood rain. He closed his eyes with the breath of my mother reassuringly
exhaling against his cheek and listened to it, the slight patter on the slim metal window sills, and then he heard the sound
of birds—small birds chirping, but he could not see them. And the idea of this, that there might be a nest right outside his
window where baby birds had woken in the rain and found their mother gone, made him want to rescue them. He felt my mother’s
limp fingers, which had loosened their hold on his hand in sleep. She was here, and this time, despite all, he was going to
let her be who she was.

It was then that I slipped inside the room with my mother and father. I was present somehow, as a person, in a way I had never
been. I had always hovered but had never stood beside them.

I made myself small in the darkness, unable to know if I could be seen. I had left him for hours every day for eight and a
half years as I had left my mother or Ruth and Ray, my brother and sister, and certainly Mr. Harvey, but he, I now saw, had
never left me. His devotion to me had made me know again and again that I had been beloved. In the warm light of my father’s
love I had remained Susie Salmon—a girl with my whole life in front of me.

“I thought if I was very quiet I would hear you,” he whispered. “If I was still enough you might come back.”

“Jack?” my mother said, waking. “I must have fallen asleep.”

“It’s wonderful to have you back,” he said.

And my mother looked at him. Everything stripped away. “How do you do it?” she asked.

“There’s no choice, Abbie,” he said. “What else can I do?”

“Go away, start over again,” she said.

“Did it work?”

They were silent. I reached out my hand and faded away.

“Why don’t you come lie down up here?” my father said. “We have a little time before the enforcers come on duty and kick you
out.”

She didn’t move.

“They’ve been nice to me,” she said. “Nurse Eliot helped me put all the flowers in water while you slept.”

He looked around him and made out their shapes. “Daffodils,” he said.

“It’s Susie’s flower.”

My father smiled beautifully. “See,” he said, “that’s how. You live in the face of it, by giving her a flower.”

“That’s so sad,” my mother said.

“Yes,” he said, “it is.”

My mother had to balance somewhat precariously on one hip near the edge of his hospital bed, but they managed. They managed
to stretch out together beside each other so they could stare into each other’s eyes.

“How was it seeing Buckley and Lindsey?”

“Incredibly hard,” she said.

They were silent for a moment and he squeezed her hand.

“You look so different,” he said.

“You mean older.”

I watched him reach up and take a strand of my mother’s hair and loop it around her ear. “I fell in love with you again while
you were away,” he said.

I realized how much I wished I could be where my mother was. His love for my mother wasn’t about looking back and loving something
that would never change. It was about loving my mother for everything—for her brokenness and her fleeing, for her being there
right then in that moment before the sun rose and the hospital staff came in. It was about touching that hair with the side
of his fingertip, and knowing yet plumbing fearlessly the depths of her ocean eyes.

My mother could not bring herself to say “I love you.”

“Will you stay?” he asked.

“For a while.”

This was something.

“Good,” he said. “So what did you say when people asked you about family in California?”

“Out loud I said I had two children. Silently I said three. I always felt like apologizing to her for that.”

“Did you mention a husband?” he asked.

And she looked at him. “No.”

“Man,” he said.

“I didn’t come back to pretend, Jack,” she said.

“Why did you come back?”

“My mother called me. She said it was a heart attack and I thought about your father.”

“Because I might die?”

“Yes.”

“You were sleeping,” he said. “You didn’t see her.”

“Who?”

“Someone came in the room and then left. I think it was Susie.”

“Jack?” my mother asked, but her alarm was only at half-mast.

“Don’t tell me you don’t see her.”

She let go.

“I see her everywhere,” she said, breathing out her relief. “Even in California she was everywhere. Boarding buses or on the
streets outside schools when I drove by. I’d see her hair but it didn’t match the face or I’d see her body or the way she
moved. I’d see older sisters and their little brothers, or two girls that looked like sisters and I imagined what Lindsey
wouldn’t have in her life—the whole relationship gone for her and for Buckley, and then that would just hit me, because I
had left too. It would just spin onto you and even to my mother.”

“She’s been great,” he said, “a rock. A spongelike rock, but a rock.”

“So I gather.”

“So if I tell you that Susie was in the room ten minutes ago, what would you say?”

“I’d say you were insane and you were probably right.”

My father reached up and traced the line of my mother’s nose and brought his finger over her two lips. As he did, the lips
parted ever so slightly.

“You have to lean down,” he said, “I’m still a sick man.”

And I watched as my parents kissed. They kept their eyes open as they did, and my mother was the one to cry first, the tears
dropping down onto my father’s cheeks until he wept too.

A
fter I left my parents in the hospital, I went to watch Ray Singh. We had been fourteen together, he and I. Now I saw his
head on his pillow, dark hair on yellow sheets, dark skin on yellow sheets. I had always been in love with him. I counted
the lashes of each closed eye. He had been my almost, my might-have-been, and I did not want to leave him any more than I
did my family.

On the listing scaffold behind the stage, with Ruth below us, Ray Singh had gotten close enough to me so that his breath was
near mine. I could smell the mixture of cloves and cinnamon that I imagined he topped his cereal with each morning, and a
dark smell too, the human smell of the body coming at me where deep inside there were organs suspended by a chemistry separate
from mine.

From the time I knew it would happen until the time it did, I had made sure not to be alone with Ray Singh inside or outside
school. I was afraid of what I wanted most—his kiss. That it would not be good enough to match the stories everyone told or
those I read in
Seventeen
and
Glamour
and
Vogue.
I feared that I would not be good enough—that my first kiss would equal rejection, not love. Still, I collected kiss stories.

“Your first kiss is destiny knocking,” Grandma Lynn said over the phone one day. I was holding the phone while my father went
to get my mother. I heard him in the kitchen say “three sheets to the wind.”

“If I had it to do over again I would have worn something stupendous—like Fire and Ice, but Revlon didn’t make that lipstick
back then. I would have left my mark on the man.”

“Mother?” my mother said into the bedroom extension.

“We’re talking kiss business, Abigail.”

“How much have you had?”

“See, Susie,” Grandma Lynn said, “if you kiss like a lemon, you make lemonade.”

“What was it like?”

“Ah, the kiss question,” my mother said. “I’ll leave you to it.” I had been making my father and her tell it over and over
again to hear their different takes. What I came away with was an image of my parents behind a cloud of cigarette smoke—the
lips only vaguely touching inside the cloud.

A moment later Grandma Lynn whispered, “Susie, are you still there?”

“Yes, Grandma.”

She was quiet for a while longer. “I was your age, and my first kiss came from a grown man. A father of a friend.”

“Grandma!” I said, honestly shocked.

“You’re not going to tell on me, are you?”

“No.”

“It was wonderful,” Grandma Lynn said. “He knew how to kiss. The boys who kissed me I couldn’t even tolerate. I’d put my hand
flat against their chests and push them away. Mr. McGahern knew how to use his lips.”

“So what happened?”

“Bliss,” she said. “I knew it wasn’t right, but it was wonderful—at least for me. I never asked him how he felt about it,
but then I never saw him alone after that.”

“But did you want to do it again?”

“Yes, I was always searching for that first kiss.”

“How about Grandaddy?”

“Not much of a kisser,” she said. I could hear the clink of ice cubes on the other end of the phone. “I’ve never forgotten
Mr. McGahern, even though it was just for a moment. Is there a boy who wants to kiss you?”

Neither of my parents had asked me this. I now know that they knew this already, could tell, smiled at each other when they
compared notes.

I swallowed hard on my end. “Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ray Singh.”

“Do you like him?”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the holdup?”

“I’m afraid I won’t be good at it.”

“Susie?”

“Yes?”

“Just have fun, kid.”

But when I stood by my locker that afternoon and I heard Ray’s voice say my name—this time behind me and not above me—it felt
like anything but fun. It didn’t feel not fun either. The easy states of black and white that I had known before did not apply.
I felt, if I were to say any word, churned. Not as a verb but as an adjective. Happy + Frightened = Churned.