Two weeks ago

Dear Amber,I made a reservation for us at the beach. For the night before you leave.We can spend a lovely day there, stay at the hotel, get up early, and come home, filled with wonderful memories.How’s that sound?Love,Mom Two weeks ago

Dear Mom,Please don’t be mad. Please?I love that you want to take me to my favorite place on earth. I love how you knew it would comfort me at a time when not much else could.But I think I want to go to the beach by myself. Would that be all right? It’s nothing personal. You know I love you guys. I’d just like some time by myself before I go. I can’t explain why I need to do this. I just do.Thanks for making the reservations. You’re so good at knowing what I need.You’re so good at being my mom!Love,Amber taking control

“You have to remember, Amber.

Staying would mean losing

the good along with the bad.”

He looks at me.

“You’d lose everything.”

I stroke his cheek.

“Not everything.”

“It’s really not something you

should leave to chance.”

Maybe not.

Maybe I don’t flip a coin.

Maybe I simply make the choice.

Tear my life

from their hands

and put it back where

it belongs—into my own.

It would be so much easier

if I wasn’t two long

years away from eighteen.

It’s such an impossible situation.

Cade takes my hand

and pulls me to

my feet.

“Are we leaving?” I ask.

“I want to show you something,” he says.

going, going—where?

We leave everything

behind on the beach.

The blanket,

the fire,

the glitter,

my bag.

It’s all there,

so we’ll be back.

More than that,

we aren’t going far.

The reveal

Up the beach,

through a gate,

around a greenhouse,

through a sliding-glass door,

and into a home.

A stale smell

greets us,

and I have to resist

the desire to run

to a window

and throw it wide open.

Cade flips the light switch

and we’re standing

in a kitchen where

faded wallpaper

of old, country

kitchen utensils

clings to the walls.

Dirty dishes stacked

on every available surface

cry out for attention.

I can almost taste the despair.

He leads me

to another room

and turns on the light.

It’s a family room

and everywhere I look—

on tables, on top of

the entertainment center,

on the walls—

there are family photos.

I walk over to

a framed collage

with pictures of two boys and

a young man who I assume

is his dad because he looks

just like Cade.

Photos of them

on the boat,

at the aquarium,

at the beach,

digging holes,

building sand castles,

flying kites.

I whisper, afraid of waking someone.

“Your dad lives here?”

“You don’t have to whisper.

They’re not home.”

“Where are they?”

“At the hospital.”

With just a few words,

so many questions

answered.

That’s why he was alone

today.

That’s why he said no more pictures

today.

That’s why he needed me

as much as I needed him

today.

His story

On an old floral couch

that smells nothing

like flowers and

everything like cigarettes,

he tells me what he’s

been keeping close

to his heart.

The words come out

slowly, like they’ve

been forced inside

for so long,

they’re hesitant

to come out.

Cade’s dad has cirrhosis,

or liver disease,

and he desperately needs

a transplant.

He and Cade’s stepmom, Marian,

are at a hospital

in Portland, with

a transplant

scheduled for

tomorrow morning.

“Isn’t that good news?” I ask.

And then,

more words,

even slower

than before.

“Amber,

I

am

the

donor.”

Dangerous

I think back to

our safe

conversations,

and it was like

watching the sharks

and the rays

behind the thick glass.

It’s where

we needed

to be.

But now we’re done watching.

We’ve jumped in.

We’re swimming with the sharks.

me: Why aren’t you in the hospital?

him: Don’t have to be. I’m healthy. I just report for surgery

tomorrow.

me: How long has your dad been there?

him: A while. They’ve been monitoring him. Marian’s staying

with a friend in Portland.

me: Don’t you have tests to do? Something?

him: Already did them earlier in the week.

me: It’s major surgery, Cade! What are the rules?

him: Take it easy. No aspirin for three days prior. No food or

drink after midnight.

me: Shouldn’t you be resting, then?

He scoots close to me.

His hand reaches out

and tucks a piece of my hair

behind my ear.

His eyes reach out to me,

trying to reassure me.

Or maybe himself.

him: I’m pretty sure being with you is the most restful place I

can be.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-14