Chapter Forty-Six
Forty-Six
PETER PULLS OUT A WATER BOTTLE and two Luna bars from his backpack. We sit quietly on the edge of the falls and eat them, just … existing. Together.
Peter shields his eyes from the sun starting to set over the pointed tops of the trees. “Are you afraid of dying?”
The question feels like it comes out of nowhere, but also, like it’s been there the whole time and he’s only now saying it out loud. It hangs like mist between us.
“I used to be,” I say. “Socrates has this whole thing about death. And how we don’t know whether it’ll be bad or great but we all assume it’ll be bad.
And he says we should live like maybe it’s the greatest thing that could happen.
” I pause. “But that’s not it. I don’t think …
I don’t think death is good or bad. Not for the person who dies, anyway. ”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean …” I roll up the wrapper and put it in his backpack.
“I mean, it’s not death that’s bad. It’s the way we think about it.
We all think we’re going to be the one person who beats this thing.
Who survives life. If we eat right or look both ways before we cross the street.
But death is like a black hole, and when you’re born, you’re already on the other side of the event horizon.
There is no escape. And that’s not bad, it’s just how it works.
When you’re dead, you’re dead. It’s not good or bad. But …”
Mom’s ashen face, the three bloodred gashes dragging down her pale cheek, pushes into my mind. Peter reaches over and his fingers find mine.
“It’s the other people, you know?” I say. “It’s the people who are left behind that it’s bad for.”
A cool breeze blows through the trees and winds its way over to us, Peter’s wet shirt clinging to my cold skin. “When my mom died … I knew it was coming. Because of the clocks, right? I knew. I mean, everyone else knew too. She was dying for a while. Cancer … it isn’t fast.”
Peter’s face goes still, and his fingers grip mine a little tighter.
“I watched this old movie with my mom. Jumanji? It was ridiculous. But the parents are dead in it. And there’s a little brother and sister.
When the parents die, the little brother basically stops talking.
He refuses to speak to anyone except his big sister.
That’s what I thought it would be like, you know?
With Jules and me? And we were both so little, but I became obsessed with this idea.
I made flash cards with sentences and feelings for her. I wanted to make sure I was ready.”
The water feels colder on my toes now, and the air too. The sun is getting lower in the sky, changing it from blue to the tiniest bit of purple.
“When my dad called us in to tell us, I put the cards in my back pocket. I’d already said goodbye to Mom.
I mean, I’d known exactly how much time I had left with her, even though no one else did.
But … then we walked in. The two of us, and there she was.
Gray. And … gone. And I went to hug Jules but she let go of my hand and ran over to her.
And she wasn’t quiet. She was screaming. I’ve never heard her like that. And …”
My legs are shaking, and I can’t even look at Peter.
“She climbed on top of her. Wailing. Screeching. ‘Mommy, wake up. Wake up.’ Over and over and over. She was hitting her. Slapping her. Clawing at her face. And her fingernails were so long. Because it was my mom’s job to clip them, you know?
” My voice cracks. “And my dad … he had to pull Jules off her and …”
“Jesus, Sydney. I’m so sorry. I can’t even—”
“I know. I know. It’s okay, it’s just—”
“It’s not okay.”
“This is what I mean, though,” I say, turning to face Peter. “Death isn’t about the people who die. It’s about the people who have to live through it. It’s about the ones who are left behind.”
Like Dad. I try to imagine what he would be like if he were here, to conjure an image of him appreciating the sound of the waterfall or running his fingers over the grass.
But I can only see the Before version of him.
The one that took me to the Plaza, and held my hand when I crossed the street, and ate the stems of my broccoli so I didn’t have to.
The only way I can picture him here is ten years younger, next to my mom, with a camera, laughing, splashing Jules and me with water.
Once she disappears, so does he.
“I hate that you had to go through all that.” Peter rubs the back of his neck and for a second he looks like he’s about to say something else, but then he turns back to the waterfall, his eyes on the water.
“I really fucking hate it.” He picks up a rock and tosses it into the lake, letting it skip a few times.
The sun is dipping farther and farther in the sky. Only a sliver of it is left over the top of the falls.
I can hardly see his face now. The darkness is starting to take over this little piece of the world.
“Sydney,” he starts, “there’s something I have to—”
A crack of thunder erupts out of nowhere and the sky opens up on us.
“Oh shit!” Peter grabs his backpack and we scramble to put on our shoes, the rain falling in sheets, soaking everything.
“Come on!” Peter grabs my hand and we make a break for it, slipping in mud, dodging branches, until we get out of the woods.
The rain is relentless, but Peter still runs over to open the car door for me. And I mean, it’s Dear Diary levels of corny but something about him standing there in the rain, holding the door for me, is making my chest swell up.
I put my hand on his.
“Sydney.” There’s something about the way he’s saying my name, standing there letting the rain soak him, that sends a jolt of fear through me.
I take my hand back. “What?” I can feel it. I can feel it already. Something is shifting.
Another crack of thunder explodes and the sky lights up for a second, the lightning zigzagging across the sky.
“Let’s just get in the car.”
“No,” I say. “Tell me now.”
“I … Today was great,” he says. “Really. So great.”
“But?” The rain pounds around us, little rivers forming in the wet dirt. I keep my face steady even as my heart splinters along with the lightning above us. Of course. Of course of course of course. I knew this was going to happen.
“But I just … I think I need some time.”
Of course he does. Fuck. What made me think I could just tell him all that messed-up shit about my mom and Jules and me? Why couldn’t I keep my goddamn mouth shut? I knew it would be too much. I fucking knew it. Peter’s too good. And I’m—me.
“Fine,” I say, over the rain. He’s still holding the car door open for me. I get inside and shut the door before he can say anything else, a wall of glass and rain separating us.
He gets in, turns the car on and the heat up, but I can’t get warm.
“Sydney, I don’t mean it like—”
“Don’t, okay?” I say. “Just don’t.”
“I’m really sorry, Syd.” Peter looks at me like his heart is breaking, which is so unbelievably unfair. I turn my face away from him, staring out the passenger window, trying my absolute hardest not to fucking cry.
As we pull out of the lot, the windshield wipers on full blast, all I can think is: Peter was right earlier.
This was all a huge mistake.