Setting the book down at my side, I turn the picture to face me and am met with the warmest smile I’ve ever seen. I’m sure Eleanor took this photo of herself, her face too close to the camera lens and her eyes crossed to be silly. But it’s the gleeful abandon that covers the length of the photo, from cheek to cheek, that has me turning to my side and bringing my pillow into my body to hold as if she were here in person.
I pull my phone from my pocket and send her a quick message, glad she was able to get her phone fixed.
ME: When did you put that photo in the Bradbury book?
I know she won’t see it for a while. A quick glance out my window shows the car their media guests arrived in is still parked at the curb and the downstairs lights are still on in the house. I decide to pass my time reading my favorite parts from Something Wicked, and I prop the photo she left for me up against the base of my lamp so it feels as if she’s not far. Maybe an hour passes before my phone vibrates with her reply.
ELEANOR: I couldn’t let you make do with that photocopy.
I slap my own face and cover it completely with my outstretched palm. She did see how pathetic my crush was. Yet . . . she kissed me anyway.
ME: I must look like a stalker.
A few minutes pass before she writes back.
ELEANOR: Pretty much.
Great, I say to myself.
I lay on my side and look at the new photo she left for me.
ME: It was nice of you to upgrade me to a color photo.
ELEANOR: A girl likes to be stalked the right way.
I glance to my window again and wonder if she’s in her room already. I set my book aside and move to my desk. She’s waiting for me when I pull open my shutters.
ME: Hi.
She looks down to read her phone then lifts her head and holds up her hand. I sit on the edge of my desk like I did weeks ago. I was so full of questions that night yet too afraid to ask them. I couldn’t even talk to her let alone help her in the way I sensed I could.
Things are different now.
ME: How did it go? With the news lady?
It feels like years have passed since our street was ground zero for a media circus. In reality, though, it’s only been a few weeks. That’s how bad news travels—in waves. One wave comes then goes, making way for the next. Those trucks are camped out in front of someone else’s worst nightmare right now.
ELEANOR: My parents are doing the interview. Just them. They film on Monday. It airs Wednesday. It’s . . .
Almost a minute passes before she finishes that thought, messaging me again. I fight the urge to fill it in for her.
ELEANOR: I know it’s a good idea. Something like that gets seen, and if Addy really was abducted, then maybe someone will recognize her and report it or that woman.
There’s a but she isn’t acknowledging. I know what it is because I’m thinking it, too. Morgan maybe thought it first.
But what if Addy is already gone?
Dead.
It’s such a short word for the end of such a long miracle. Life has so many stages, every little development on our way to being born, our first breath, our first words. We learn emotions, we walk and talk. We experience thrills and disappointment. Love and loss. Accomplishments. Regrets. To end it all with an event so small—death.
My phone buzzes again, only this time, instead of a text, Eleanor is calling to video chat. I cradle my phone in my palm as I slide up on the screen to answer.
“Miss me already?” I don’t expect her to laugh, but it’s rewarding that she smiles.
“I’m too tired to type. I think the lack of sleep is finally catching up with me,” she says through a yawn.
I meet her stare from across the street.
“Maybe you should try to get some sleep, then,” I say, watching as she holds her palm against the glass pane of her window then lets it slip away. Her curtains fall shut and the light in her room dims.
“Would you stay on the phone with me?” she asks, yawning again.
I close my shutters and move to my bed, studying what I can see through the phone screen. Her room is a pale pink, and the little light that’s on barely glows against her face.
“Yeah, I can do that. You get comfortable. I’m reading Bradbury again,” I say.
She breathes out what I think is her attempt at an ominous laugh and from what I can see, she’s slipped under her covers and rested her phone on its side so I can keep an eye on her for as long as she needs.
“Read to me,” she says.
“Okay.”
I sit with my back against the wall and the book propped up with my knees. I begin reading about boys in October and the lightning rod salesman of Bradbury’s twisted imagination, and by the time I finish the first chapter, Eleanor is fast asleep. I set the book aside and turn my own lights off completely so the only light I see is coming from her. I won’t hang up, and I won’t fall asleep myself for quite a while. But I will make sure she finds peace.
Tonight.
Tomorrow.
Always.
Nineteen
Eleanor has been on edge for the last three days. The team from National Network News was warm and convincing, and by the time the crew left the Trombley home on Monday night, they’d captured an entire segment with Eleanor in Addy’s room.
She showed them Addy’s things. Shared the story about her sister dressing up in Eleanor’s uniform because she idolized her sister so much. They got her to cry. And she hasn’t
