I begin to sketch out the tree and the roots, the branches and the spreading leaves.
The days right after the burning of Cairo were hard. Although Boston and Sydney knew we were innocent, after President Barber was shot and killed, there was confusion in the Stars. There were rumors of insurrection, assassination, some fiendish plot by the Gearheads to take control. We had to stay and tell our story at something like a trial held in the church of Cairo, or what was left of it. Some of the back wall was burned out. It was unsettling, but by the time it was over, everyone seemed satisfied that the truth was out. They gave the President a decent funeral. They shot their guns in the air and wrapped up Barber’s body in a flag before they burned him. It was all very solemn, and, I have to say, a little ridiculous. I remember Pest told me after the funeral when we were sure that we were alone that it was a lot of show for nothing. “No one will remember that flag in ten years,” he said. “Someone should have just talked about who he was.” But no one talked about Barber. Maybe no one knew anything about him. Maybe that’s why the flag was so important to them, something that marked him, something that told everyone who he was and what he thought and felt and believed when no one really knew that much at all.
I start to capture a little of the background. I make sure to catch the sloping hill behind the tree and the fields. This is what we believe. This is more than a place, it’s who we are. I was so happy to see it when we returned that I forgave Franky and Norman and I think they’ve forgiven me, although I do get some looks from time to time, puzzling looks, sad but also hurt? Betrayed? I don’t think they will ever look at me the same way again. I lied to everyone, but I did it for a good reason. They will have to understand that. Now that Eric is back and healthy, they have to admit that I was right to do what I did. I don’t think they like that, but they respect me more for it. They look at me different now. They tell me that I am different, that I’m not the same person I was before. I’m more talkative, they say, and I laugh more. They’re right, I have changed, but I don’t tell them how I think I’ve changed. I don’t tell them that I know things about myself now that I wish I never knew. I’m easier to fool than I ever thought, I’m capable of doing very bad things to survive, and I know a place inside me that is dark and devoid of feeling. Every time I look down at my healing wrist, I’m reminded of just how delicate this whole thing is. Not just life itself, but all the connections between us, all those things that hold us together and make us family and friends and make other people enemies. It can all change. It can all change in a moment.
I feel a shiver of fear and take a deep breath. I’m not here to think about myself. I’m here to think about them. I open my eyes and sigh and look up at the tree. I would do anything to see them again. All of them who died because they ate an oatmeal bar given to them by someone they trusted. Crypt, Gunner, Rebok, silly boys, always fighting, but I loved them; Matt with his secret suffering; Patrick, Fiona, Peter, Beth, so many. And Artemis. I look down at my paper, my lips trembling. My best friend who always needed hugs I never wanted to give. I take a sharp breath. I haven’t allowed myself to think of her, and now that I do, I suddenly remember how she smelled like candy. I rub my nose and realize that I’m weeping.
“Are you okay?” I feel Pest’s hand on my shoulder, and I reach out and put my hand on his.
“I will be,” I say. “Some day.”
Pest looks at me with sympathy and squeezes my shoulder. I can see that he’s searching for something else to say. I can see the thoughts working there behind his eyes. Such adult thoughts on such a young face. But it doesn’t make me feel weird anymore. All of us who’ve had the Worm have this strange disconnect between our hearts and our body. They don’t seem to match exactly. All the weirdness I’ve ever seen in Pest, now I recognize as part of myself too. Pest’s eyes stop searching for something more to say. He’s smart enough to know that sometimes silence is best. I give his hand a squeeze and then turn back to my paper.
My pencil hits the page, but doesn’t move. I bite my lip. It’s not easy. I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I look up. It’s Eric. Tall and strong, wearing new clothes, his blue eyes shining down on me, I can’t see any sign of the Worm on him. Just last week, he let me cut his hair and shave his scraggly beard. He sits down next to me on the boulder. It’s strange to see how quickly he’s recovered, strange and wonderful.
“How’s it going?”
I shrug. Eric looks down at my brief sketch, just light outlines and shapes.
“I like the flowers,” he tells me.
I smile at him, and then I can’t resist putting my head on his shoulder. I feel his hand gently hold me, and, for a moment, I can almost imagine that none of this has happened. Nothing has changed. But when I open my eyes, I know that everything has changed, and not all of it has been bad.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I tell Eric. He knows that I mean to say I love him. Eric looks a little surprised, maybe a little embarrassed. He blushes, but he squeezes me.
“Don’t forget Matt,” he says to me, pointing at the page.
I sit up and go back to the page. I won’t forget any of them. I want to create a record of them, the people we’ve loved and lost. I want to draw them all under this tree with us, so that we remember them, not for some flag that they were buried with, but for who they were and for how much we loved them, how much they will be missed. I imagine them all standing, smiling, posing for me. Artemis pretends to be shy and then laughs. Quiet, strong Cyrus, Amber in Diane’s arms, Crypt and Rebok embracing each other. Patrick and Fiona stop arguing for a moment to hold each other and look toward me. Lucia is there too, smiling and waving. When I look at the tree again, as Pest sits underneath it, reading, I see two figures that I haven’t planned to be there, my tall, kind father, holding my mother, her slender body and long hair like a song. They’re all here. They’re all with me.
I put my pencil to the paper, and, sighing to steady my trembling hand, I begin to draw.