Time slowed. She was sure she’d waited a year before they arrived.
Her arms burned and blood soaked her clothes. She put so much pressure on Amaya’s wrists, Coral believed she might send them both straight through the floor.
Then the paramedics took over. Pandemonium. Everywhere. When Coral found herself in a sterile-smelling waiting room with a hospital gown draped over her to cover her bloodied clothes, she released a sobbing breath.
Her hand shook as she hit Call. Merrick’s voice mail. Why didn’t he pick up?
Coral didn’t leave a message. How could she tell him over a recording that his sister had tried to commit suicide? Again?
He’d blame himself for leaving her alone.
Picturing his agony left Coral hollow and broken.
So she waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Sometimes the waiting was more unbearable than anything that came before.
Forty-One
Brooke
After
I tuck my phone away and study Hope’s mom.
Her head hangs and she dabs at her eyes with a tissue. Every now and then, her shoulders shake. About midway through the service, she stands and hurries out the back.
Her trails of mascara stay with me as my own tears continue to fall. I haven’t cried in over a year. Now I can’t seem to stop.
The pastor steps down from the podium and an odd couple takes the stage. A tall, gangly guy wearing an oversize beanie and a loose tie over his plain T-shirt stands beside a girl who could pass for a supermodel.
Nikki?
She’s the same as the day we met, except now she’s dressed in all black aside from the white silk rose pinned to her ebony hair. Small world doesn’t begin to cover this one.
“She was a sister to me,” Nikki says.
I’m impressed by how she refrains from emotion the entire way through. Her flawless speech hits each and every heartstring, snapping them in two.
Yes, she was my sister.
Yes, she was wise beyond her years.
Yes, we lost her too soon.
But lost seems the wrong word choice. It implies Hope has been misplaced. That she can’t be found. But she’s here, everywhere. She’s in the rafters and in the walls. She’s in the trees and the wind. In the shaking shoulders of her mother and the impossible stillness of her father. She’s in Nikki’s controlled words and in my twisting, turning heart.
The guy I assume is Nikki’s boyfriend squeezes her shoulders. They exit the stage together, and the pastor leaves the mic open.
“If anyone would like to say a few words, now is the time.”
Anxiety grips me as my emotions war. Fear of getting up in front of a room full of strangers. Knowing I’ll inevitably say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing or act totally awkward or cry hysterically and run from the room.
But I’ll never get this chance again.
And if I don’t stand now, I know I’ll regret it.
Jake and Mary sit behind me. I glance backward and Mary offers silent encouragement. She lifts her arm and flashes her tattoo, reminding me all I have to do is breathe.
Jake leans forward and squeezes my shoulder.
I rise and make my way to the line around the edge that’s already forming. A girl gets up and starts spewing off all sorts of things about how Hope was her best friend and this is such a tragedy and she’ll be missed by so many.
I want to punch this girl for her plastic words and synthetic tears. My gut says she was one of the people who contributed to Hope’s depression. The girl doesn’t even call her Hope but refers to her as classmate or BFF. Hope would have hated that. I straighten because it’s in a single syllable I see I knew her better.
She let me into her world and I’ll never forget it.
When it’s my turn, I fan my fingers over my heart, attempting to quiet my shuddering nerves. I try to find Jake at the back of the room, but there are too many faces and they’re all staring at me. My mouth gets too close to the mic and I trip over the cord and why on earth didn’t I write down what I wanted to say?
“Hi,” I start. Stammer. I feel sick and I forget my line.
Hope. What would Hope do?
“You know exactly what I would do,” a memory whispers in my ear.
Hope hated when things grew too serious. Making light was her defense, and a good one too. Not always fitting, but now?
Now is precisely the right time to do a very Hope thing.
I clear my throat and do what I dread. Sing. While writing has become my comfort, my own story, my voice has so much more to give. There are more stories than mine. This is Hope’s story. So I tell it the way she would have wanted it told.
I find an empty spot in a pew a few rows back and imagine Hope sitting there. She’d wear all the colors, of course, no black or drab for her. I see those colors as they dance and take flight, carrying Hope with them. I keep singing though everyone is staring. I sing because she was my friend and I’ve failed her and hers was a life that could have been saved.
I missed my chance.
I lost a friend.
The sudden playing of an instrument accompanies me, throwing me off for a second. But I find my place and keep going. I don’t stop until I’ve given every last note. She deserved as much. She deserved everything.
When the song ends, the music fades and I find my words again. “Hope,” I say, imagining her sitting in front of me, “you are not nothing. And neither am I.”
A sob catches in my throat and my gaze falls on the front row. On her dad. He’s stoic, hard to read. But I think I detect a hint of gratitude in his shining eyes.
My gaze shifts and, for the first time, I see the boy sitting next to him. A harmonica rests in his lap and sadness shades his dark eyes.
I gasp and nearly drop the mic.
How did I miss it? Why didn’t I see?
“Small world?” I hear Hope ask.
You have no idea.
Forty-Two
Merrick
The inn was exactly as he remembered. Or hadn’t remembered.
Now the memory came to life. A black-and-white film restored with color.
His father had brought them here. Merrick could see it clearly now.
Cars packed the modest parking lot. Merrick headed inside where he found a vacant registration desk. A hostess stood outside a double door arch that led into the restaurant. She greeted him and asked, “Party of one?”
“Sure,” he said, too nervous to say anything else. He glanced left and right. He didn’t know what he was looking for yet. But something told him he was about to find out.
“This way.” The hostess led him to a table at the back of a busy room of families, couples, and groups of women chatting away.
Merrick sat and the hostess placed the menu on the table. “Can I get you a drink?” She removed a coaster from her apron pocket and tossed it onto the smooth wood.
“Coffee.”
“Cream?”
“No, thanks.”
She nodded and stepped back to the kitchen.