The Last Time We Say Goodbye Part 14

Another dream.

My hands are shaking. My breath jerks in and out of my lungs. I can still feel the cold of the water. I can still smell the blood.

A bad one this time.

Really bad.

There's a soft tap on my door, so soft I wonder if I really heard it. I try to make my breathing quiet so I can listen. Which is hard.

Another tap. Louder. Real.

"Honey?" It's my mother's voice behind the door. "Are you all right?"

I fumble for my gla.s.ses, pausing before I put them on to wipe my wet face. Was I crying? I couldn't have been crying. I don't remember.

I straighten out the blankets before I answer. "I'm fine, Mom."

The door opens. She pokes her head in. "I heard a noise. It sounded like you were upset."

I wonder if she heard me yell Ty's name.

"I had a nightmare, is all," I say. "I'm okay."

She comes in and sits at the edge of my mattress. When I was little and had nightmares, sometimes she would crawl into bed with me and stay there for the rest of the night, her body so warm and soft and safe that the nightmares never came back. And then, after Dad left, for the rest of that lousy summer, I slept with her because she couldn't bear to sleep in their big bed all alone without him.

She snored. Loudly. Like a wounded pig. But then again, the times she stayed with me when I was little, in the twin bed so small she had to sleep sideways to fit, I used to wet the bed.

The things you do for the people you love.

She tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. "Sometimes I dream about your brother, too."

She meets my eyes. There's a painful knowledge there. She heard me call his name.

"Yeah," I whisper.

I can't explain it to her, how they make me feel, these dreams where Ty dies. They're bad, and it feels like they're getting worse, more graphic in nature, but I don't want to stop having them. In some morbid way, I like having them. Because at least then I get to see Ty. I get to talk to him, sometimes. At least, when I'm there, when Ty is dying in whatever way he's dying, I'm with him. I'm hanging on to him. I'm asking him not to go.

In those moments I can do something for him that I didn't do in real life. I can answer the text. I can be there.

"Valium helps. Do you want a Valium?" Mom asks. "I don't dream when I take them."

What is it with people trying to force-feed me drugs? I shake my head. "It wasn't that bad."

She hesitates.

"I'm fine, really," I insist.

"All right, honey." She leans to kiss me on the temple. "I love you."

It wasn't fair for me to be blaming her, before. Not for Ty. All she's ever been guilty of is loving too much.

"I love you, too," I say.

She gets up and goes out, closing the door quietly behind her, as if there is someone else in this house she doesn't want to wake up. I lie back.

0. 1. 1. 2. 3. 5. 8. 13. 21. 34. 55. 89. 144.

But sleep doesn't come for a long time, and when it does, the dreams are all still waiting.

21 February The last time I saw Ty 22 February Dear Dave, This writing thing is killing me. Can I please stop now? I've been hanging out with a new friend, by the way. Well, an old friend, technically. But a new friend. Healthy, right? Cathartic, right? I'm the picture of sound mental health, I swear 23 February Dear alien race in the future: Please don't read this journal as a representative of the typical life of a human adolescent. It will screw up your research for years to come. In fact, it's probably best if you simply disregard what's written here entirely.

Also, if you haven't already, please don't annihilate the human race. We can be charming.

Yours truly, Alexis P. Riggs MY CAR WON'T START. I'm in the parking lot at Dave's office, after yet another scintillating hour of non-productive conversation, and now, to top it off, the Lemon is s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with me. It does that sometimes-some kind of electrical short that would cost me more than the car is worth to have fixed. I put the key in the ignition and turn it, and nothing happens. I do all the stuff that normally works in this situation. I open and close the door, bang on the dash a few times, turn the heater to the off setting, jiggle the key, and try again. Nothing happens.

I wait five minutes and try again.

Nothing.

This is a problem.

I'm all the way across Lincoln, at least twenty miles from home. It's getting dark.

I take out my phone and stare at my contacts list. I can't call Beaker-she's at play practice for Brigadoon. Eleanor doesn't have a car-her mom drops her off everywhere. My own mom is working until ten.

c.r.a.p.

I could call Dad. We were supposed to have dinner tonight, Tuesday, as usual, but he left me a message earlier that he wanted to reschedule for Sat.u.r.day morning.

I check my watch-5:17. He might be home by now. Megan's house is only a few miles from here. I know he'd be happy to come pick me up.

I sigh and try the key one more time.

Nothing.

I've never called Dad, is the thing.

Not since he left.

He calls me, if there are plans that need to be made. We meet at a rotating set of restaurants every week, and these meetings last about an hour at most. We talk about work. We talk about school. Sometimes he gives me money, an offering that communicates that he is sorry he messed up my life, words I know I will never hear him say out loud. I take his money. The bad-father tax, I like to call it. Which I don't feel bad about, since most of the savings my parents had put away for my college education was eaten up by the divorce.

We have our rituals. Our unspoken rules.

We don't talk about Megan.

We don't talk about Ty.

I don't go to Megan's house.

I don't call Dad at home.

If I did that, it'd be like me saying it's okay, what he did. Like I'm accepting his new life, the one he built without us.

I won't do it.

I dial Sadie's cell, but she doesn't pick up. I dial her house. The phone rings and rings, and I'm about to hang up when I hear a disembodied voice.

"Yeah," it says. "I'm here, yo."

"Seth?" I ask, but who else could it be?

"In the flesh," he says with a sleepy laugh. "What can I do you for?"

I try to ignore his atrocious grammar. "Hi, it's Lex. Is Sadie home?"

"Sadie? Nope. Did you try her cell?"

"Yes, Seth. I tried her cell."

"Well, I don't know what to tell you, then. Do you want to leave a message?"

"No." I try the key one more time. Nothing. I beat my fist against the steering wheel. Stupid, stupid Lemon. "I was just hoping she could give me a ride home. My car's . . . stupid. Never mind."

"I could give you a ride," Seth says. "Where are you?"

"A ride? On your bike, you mean?" I've seen Seth tearing around the neighborhood on that thing. It makes so much noise you can hardly miss it.

He snorts. "On my Kawasaki Ninja 300. Her name is Georgia. Because she's a peach."

Right. I try to picture it, me balancing precariously behind Seth on his motorcycle, clutching him around the middle as we careen twenty miles over the icy roads across town.

"No thanks, Seth," I decline as politely as I can. "I can get someone else to pick me up. I only called because I thought Sadie might want to hang out."

"Oh, so me and Georgia aren't good enough for you?" he says, his voice teasing. "Come on, Lex. Where you at?"

"It's okay," I say quickly. "You probably have to be at work soon, and I'm all the way downtown, and I don't want to inconvenience you."

"Lex."

"There's someone else who can come get me," I say again. "It's no problem. Thanks for the offer, though. Some other time I'd love to ride . . . Georgia, okay?"

"You sure?"

"Positive. Thanks."

I hang up. I try to start the engine again.

Nothing.

I hate the Lemon.

"c.r.a.p," I say to n.o.body. "c.r.a.p!"

I get a flash of Ty's face, a memory of his brow furrowed in frustration, when I taught him to drive.

"c.r.a.p," he said. He tugged on the s.h.i.+ft, making the Lemon groan in protest. "I'll never get this."

"You will," I told him. "But hopefully you'll get it before you ruin my transmission."

The car died.

"c.r.a.p!" Ty roared. He'd been so moody lately, every ten minutes switching to a different wild emotion. I chalked it up to s.h.i.+fting hormones. It's a terrible thing to be a teenage boy.

I put my hand over his on the s.h.i.+ft, and for a minute I was mad too, that it was me teaching him and not Dad. It should have been Dad.

"Hey," I said to Ty. "It's okay. Take a breath."

He leaned back in the driver's seat, exhaled forcefully through his nose, and rubbed at his bloodshot eyes. He'd started wearing contact lenses a few weeks earlier. I was still trying to get used to seeing him without his gla.s.ses.

"I suck," he said. "I should just take the bus."

"You do suck," I agreed. "But, you know, pretty much everybody sucks at first, and everybody learns to drive, sooner or later, the same way everybody learns how to walk. Step by step. Put your foot on the clutch." I reached over and turned the key in the ignition, and that time, which happened more than a year ago, the Lemon started right up.

"You can do this," I told him. "No big deal."

He nodded. Smiled faintly. "Thanks."

And then he drove. Not well, not that time, but he got us from point A to point B.

I blink against the memory.

I turn the key, but the engine doesn't make a sound. Maybe the battery's dead this time. Maybe my c.r.a.p car has finally gone belly-up.

I'm hosed.

Of course, there is someone else I could call. I wasn't lying when I said that to Seth.

Someone who would definitely come and get me.

Someone not Dad.

I stare at my phone.

It would be awkward. Embarra.s.sing. Pathetic, even. But what other choice do I have?

I swallow, hard.

"I can do this," I whisper, and then I press send. "No big deal."