am, if you decide to come.” I choked up, as the weight of what I was doing hit me afresh. I would never see my mother again. “I love you, Lorena. I love you, Summer.” The tears came in a flood. “Goodbye,” I managed to choke before disconnecting.
I took a few deep breaths, wiped my eyes with the back of my wrist. I had more calls to make.
When I’d pulled myself together sufficiently I called Mick’s land line. He answered on the second ring.
“Hey. I’m in the car.”
“Where you headed?” Mick asked.
“Savannah. Tybee Island. I’m going to be with my sister.”
He didn’t say anything for a long time. Then, finally, in a strangled voice he said, “I’m sorry, mate. I’d trade places with you if I could. I swear I would.”
“I know you would. Hey, my last months were so much better for knowing you. Thanks.”
Mick took a minute to compose himself. “Same here.” He sniffed. “Ah, Christ this is not fair.”
“I know. I don’t want to blow away and forget myself.”
“I won’t forget you, if that’s any comfort.”
“It is. Thanks.” But I was way beyond comforting.
I told Mick I needed to call my mom. We said our final goodbye, and the phone went dead. I called Mom.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Just taking a drive. Clearing my head.” She’d understand why I didn’t tell her the truth, once she got over the shock and grief. There was simply no way to spare her that grief, but I could delay it for a few hours.
“How are you doing?” she asked.
“Not so good, Mom. I don’t think I can hang on much longer.”
Mom sniffled into the phone. “I know you’re trying, sweetie. Hang on.” She took a big, shuddering breath. “He swears he can’t help what’s happening. Is that really true?”
I was tempted to lie, but if everything went as planned, I’d have the last laugh anyway. “Yes, I think he’s telling the truth.”
I wondered what it had been like for her, growing up with Tom Darby as her dad. She’d told me stories. Some of them were typical Grandpa, others surprised me. Grandpa used to take her fishing, just the two of them. And he spent money on her behind Grandma’s back.
“Come and stay here with me for a while,” Mom said.
“Maybe I will. I will, if I’m still here.”
The Maserati’s engine whined as I leaned on the gas even harder. Ahead there was nothing but grass, trees, and a line of concrete that disappeared in the distance.
Somehow Mom had managed to retain Grandma and Grandpa’s mental toughness without losing her warmth. She was kind of like Summer in that way.
“Mom, can I ask you something?”
“Anything, sweetie.”
“Do you think Lorena was the right woman for me? Were we…I don’t know, were we meant to be together?”
She blew out another big breath. “It’s hard for me to say.”
“Mom, just tell me. I want to know what you really think.” I passed a big log truck like it was standing still.
“I love you. I love Lorena. You’re both wonderful people.”
“But.”
“But I don’t think she was perfect for you. She was the kite, and you held the string. You didn’t get to do much of the flying.”
Her words surprised me. I’d seen it; it wasn’t like I hadn’t, but I’d never thought it was a problem. “I’d always thought of myself as a string holder. I felt lucky to have such a fabulous kite.”
Mom laughed at the metaphor. “You’re not just a string holder, though. Sometimes you’re a string holder, sometimes you’re a kite. You’re a good balance that way.”
I wished Mom had met Summer. I wanted to ask if she thought Summer and I would have been a good match. I already knew the answer to that, though.
I wished I could tell Summer.
I didn’t want to say goodbye, didn’t want to face the empty car hurtling me toward my death, but we’d said what we needed to say. It was time to say goodbye, or raise Mom’s suspicions.
When we hung up, the road was deathly quiet, save for the thunk of the tires running over the grooves in the pavement.
“I’ll give up
No answer, of course.
I was back to bargaining, the third stage in the dying process. I hadn’t realized you could move backward; I thought once you finished a stage that was it. I had been in the depression stage, and thought I’d been moving closer to acceptance with every mile I covered, but here I was bargaining again. Even if Grandpa had some control over what was happening, and all signs suggested he did not, why would he bargain now? He’d won. At least, he thought he’d won. I shut my mouth, resolved to follow this through in silence.
What was it Krishnapuma had written about dying? It had been strangely comforting when I read it.
I sobbed. I didn’t want to remember yet. In fifty years I might embrace it. Maybe it would be comforting to understand what was happening. But I had a lot of time left, or I was supposed to. Right now I didn’t want to take the ultimate journey into the godhead; I wanted the mundane things, the day-to-day. My work. My friends. Summer.
I tried Summer again. Still got her voicemail. I pushed the Maserati harder.
CHAPTER 40
I barely recognized Tybee Beach. The seedy bars had been replaced by upscale surf shops, rooming houses by giant condos on stilts. Heart pounding, I sought familiar landmarks. The street names were no help; I didn’t remember which street Grandpa’s house had been on, and none of them were familiar.
A cold ocean wind cut through my leather jacket as I trotted up and down the boardwalk clutching a Home Depot bag, past bicycle rental kiosks and custard stands, all shuttered for the winter. Piers jutted over the grey water every tenth of a mile or so, abandoned save for the occasional weekend fisherman. They all looked the same.
I tried to reel myself back to the days when this boardwalk was a second home to Kayleigh and me. We’d fly kites here—triangular black bats with long yellow tails. Once we’d built a fort underneath the wood planks and giggled as people walked by, unaware of us. We lived on French fries and fried dough served on paper plates, salt- water taffy that stuck to the paper wrappers.
Was she still under that pier? Where was that pier? I could see it so clearly in my mind’s eye, but I had no idea where along the beach it was. I scanned the boardwalk.
Beyond an ice cream shop, a patch of open space caught my eye. It was a miniature golf course with a pirate theme. The neon sign—Blackboard Golf—was new, but the course wasn’t. Grandpa’s rooming house had been on the street directly behind Blackbeard Golf, the pier fifty yards to the left down the boardwalk.
“I bet you recognized it long before I did,” I whispered. I slowed, my steps thudding hollowly on the wood planks. The cold ocean wind reminded me of the wind in Deadland, the wind that worked on you like sandpaper.
We had the pier all to ourselves. Green wooden benches lined the low railing on both sides, with ornate
