Beautiful Redemption
Page 98
Lena gave me a funny look when I finally unrolled the paper I had been carrying around all afternoon.
“What’s that?” She closed her spiral notebook, the one she spent all her time writing in, like she couldn’t get everything on the page fast enough.
“The crossword puzzle.” We lay on our stomachs in the grass, curled up against each other in our old spot by the tree near the lemon groves, near the hearthstone. True to its name, Greenbrier was the greenest I’d ever seen it. Not a lubber or a bunch of dead brown grass in sight. Gatlin really was back to the best version of its old self.
We did this, L. We didn’t know how powerful we were.
She leaned her head on my shoulder.
We do now.
I didn’t know how long it would last, but I swore to myself that I wouldn’t take it for granted ever again. Not one minute of what we had.
“I thought we could do it. You know, for Amma.”
“The crossword?”
I nodded, and she laughed. “You know, I never even looked at those crossword puzzles? Not once. Not until you were gone and started using them to talk to me.”
“Pretty clever, right?” I nudged her.
“Better than you trying to write songs. Though your puzzles weren’t that great either.” She smiled, biting her lower lip. I couldn’t resist kissing it over and over and over, until she finally pulled away, laughing.
“Okay. They were much better.” She touched her forehead to mine.
I smiled. “Admit it, L. You loved my crosswords.”
“Are you kidding? Of course I did. You came back to me every time I looked at those stupid puzzles.”
“I was desperate.”
We unrolled the paper between us, and I got out the #2 pencil. I should have known what we’d see.
Amma had left me a message, like the ones I left for Lena.
Two across. As in, to be or not to.
B. E.
Four down. As in, the opposite of evil.
G. O. O. D.
Five down. As in, the victim of a sledding injury, from an Edith Wharton novel.
E. T. H. A. N.
Ten across. As in, an expression of joy.
H. A. L. L. E. L. U. J. A. H.
I crumpled up the paper and pulled Lena toward me.
Amma was home.
Amma was with me.
And Amma was gone.
I pretty much wept until the sun fell out of the sky and the meadow around me was as dark and as light as I felt.
CHAPTER 39
A Hymn for Amma
order is not orderly
no more than things are things
hallelujah
no sense to be made of water towers
or christmas towns
when you can’t tell up from down
hallelujah
graves are always grave
from inside or out
and love breaks what can’t be broken
hallelujah
one I loved I loved, one I loved I lost
now she is strong though she is gone
found and paid her way
she flew away
hallelujah
light the dark—sing the greats
a new day
hallelujah
EPILOGUE
After
That night, I lay in my ancient mahogany bed in my room, like generations of Wates before me. Books beneath me. Broken cell phone next to me. Old iPod hanging around my neck. Even my road map was back on the wall again. Lena had taped it up herself. It didn’t matter how comfortable everything was. I couldn’t sleep—that’s how much thinking I had to do.
At least, remembering.
When I was little, my grandfather died. I loved my grandfather, for a thousand reasons I couldn’t tell you, and a thousand stories I could barely remember.
After it happened, I hid out back, up in the tree that grew halfway out of our fence, where the neighbors used to throw green peaches at my friends and me, and where we used to throw them at the neighbors.
I couldn’t stop crying, no matter how hard I jammed my fists into my eyes. I guess I never realized people could die before.
First my dad came outside and tried to talk me down out of that stupid tree. Then my mom tried. Nothing they said could make me feel any better. I asked if my grandpa was in Heaven, like they said in Sunday school. My mom said she wasn’t sure. It was the historian in her. She said no one really knew what happened when we died.
Maybe we became butterflies. Maybe we became people all over again. Maybe we just died and nothing happened.
I only cried harder. A historian isn’t really what you’re looking for in that kind of situation. That’s when I told her I didn’t want Poppi to die, but more than that, I didn’t want her to die, and even more than that, I didn’t want to die either. Then she broke down.
It was her dad.
I came down from the tree on my own afterward, and we cried together. She pulled me into her arms, right there on the back steps of Wate’s Landing, and said I wouldn’t die.
I wouldn’t.
She promised.
I wasn’t going to die, and neither would she.
After that, the only thing I remember was going inside and eating three pieces of raspberry-cherry pie, the kind with the crisscross sugar crust. Someone had to die before Amma would make that pie.
Eventually, I grew up and grew older and stopped looking for my mom’s lap every time I felt like crying. I even stopped going in that old tree. But it was years before I realized my mom had lied to me. It wasn’t until she left me that I even remembered what she’d said.
I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I don’t know what any of this is really about.
“What’s that?” She closed her spiral notebook, the one she spent all her time writing in, like she couldn’t get everything on the page fast enough.
“The crossword puzzle.” We lay on our stomachs in the grass, curled up against each other in our old spot by the tree near the lemon groves, near the hearthstone. True to its name, Greenbrier was the greenest I’d ever seen it. Not a lubber or a bunch of dead brown grass in sight. Gatlin really was back to the best version of its old self.
We did this, L. We didn’t know how powerful we were.
She leaned her head on my shoulder.
We do now.
I didn’t know how long it would last, but I swore to myself that I wouldn’t take it for granted ever again. Not one minute of what we had.
“I thought we could do it. You know, for Amma.”
“The crossword?”
I nodded, and she laughed. “You know, I never even looked at those crossword puzzles? Not once. Not until you were gone and started using them to talk to me.”
“Pretty clever, right?” I nudged her.
“Better than you trying to write songs. Though your puzzles weren’t that great either.” She smiled, biting her lower lip. I couldn’t resist kissing it over and over and over, until she finally pulled away, laughing.
“Okay. They were much better.” She touched her forehead to mine.
I smiled. “Admit it, L. You loved my crosswords.”
“Are you kidding? Of course I did. You came back to me every time I looked at those stupid puzzles.”
“I was desperate.”
We unrolled the paper between us, and I got out the #2 pencil. I should have known what we’d see.
Amma had left me a message, like the ones I left for Lena.
Two across. As in, to be or not to.
B. E.
Four down. As in, the opposite of evil.
G. O. O. D.
Five down. As in, the victim of a sledding injury, from an Edith Wharton novel.
E. T. H. A. N.
Ten across. As in, an expression of joy.
H. A. L. L. E. L. U. J. A. H.
I crumpled up the paper and pulled Lena toward me.
Amma was home.
Amma was with me.
And Amma was gone.
I pretty much wept until the sun fell out of the sky and the meadow around me was as dark and as light as I felt.
CHAPTER 39
A Hymn for Amma
order is not orderly
no more than things are things
hallelujah
no sense to be made of water towers
or christmas towns
when you can’t tell up from down
hallelujah
graves are always grave
from inside or out
and love breaks what can’t be broken
hallelujah
one I loved I loved, one I loved I lost
now she is strong though she is gone
found and paid her way
she flew away
hallelujah
light the dark—sing the greats
a new day
hallelujah
EPILOGUE
After
That night, I lay in my ancient mahogany bed in my room, like generations of Wates before me. Books beneath me. Broken cell phone next to me. Old iPod hanging around my neck. Even my road map was back on the wall again. Lena had taped it up herself. It didn’t matter how comfortable everything was. I couldn’t sleep—that’s how much thinking I had to do.
At least, remembering.
When I was little, my grandfather died. I loved my grandfather, for a thousand reasons I couldn’t tell you, and a thousand stories I could barely remember.
After it happened, I hid out back, up in the tree that grew halfway out of our fence, where the neighbors used to throw green peaches at my friends and me, and where we used to throw them at the neighbors.
I couldn’t stop crying, no matter how hard I jammed my fists into my eyes. I guess I never realized people could die before.
First my dad came outside and tried to talk me down out of that stupid tree. Then my mom tried. Nothing they said could make me feel any better. I asked if my grandpa was in Heaven, like they said in Sunday school. My mom said she wasn’t sure. It was the historian in her. She said no one really knew what happened when we died.
Maybe we became butterflies. Maybe we became people all over again. Maybe we just died and nothing happened.
I only cried harder. A historian isn’t really what you’re looking for in that kind of situation. That’s when I told her I didn’t want Poppi to die, but more than that, I didn’t want her to die, and even more than that, I didn’t want to die either. Then she broke down.
It was her dad.
I came down from the tree on my own afterward, and we cried together. She pulled me into her arms, right there on the back steps of Wate’s Landing, and said I wouldn’t die.
I wouldn’t.
She promised.
I wasn’t going to die, and neither would she.
After that, the only thing I remember was going inside and eating three pieces of raspberry-cherry pie, the kind with the crisscross sugar crust. Someone had to die before Amma would make that pie.
Eventually, I grew up and grew older and stopped looking for my mom’s lap every time I felt like crying. I even stopped going in that old tree. But it was years before I realized my mom had lied to me. It wasn’t until she left me that I even remembered what she’d said.
I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I don’t know what any of this is really about.
