Epilogue Mathilda
Epilogue
Mathilda
August, two and a half years later
Bitter Creek Farm
Today is my going-away picnic, and basically all the kids in my graduating class and every adult I ever met in Vermont are here.
Jasmine and her littlest kid came, too, and obviously Uncle Stephen, Beck and Micah.
Gran, too. I kind of like her these days, not giving a shit about what anyone thinks, ordering my dad to get her more bourbon.
Mee-maw and Papa aren’t here, which is fine by me.
They came for graduation. There’s a big tent, a huge table of catered food from Stone Hearth, plus Dad manning the grill and a pig roast.
Micah made an utterly sick cake—a map of the Eastern Seaboard with Vermont and Georgia really big, almost touching, all the other states squished in between.
It says Rude that you’re leaving but okay.
I totally love it. Dad has a Ben & Jerry’s ice cream truck coming later, and Everest and I are psyched about that.
We’re not together, obvs. Just good friends.
Their whole family is here, and the boys are like wild ponies or something, stampeding everywhere, Jasmine’s kid following like a shadow.
Yeah. Tons of people. It seemed like a nice idea at the time, but now that they’re here, it’s a lot. I sneak off around the back to the tree with the swings and sit on one. I guess I need a moment to process things, as my therapist says.
Audrey is dead, of course.
On April third, two years ago, with the birds singing like crazy and the trees just starting to bud out, she just . . . slipped away. During her last few days, she barely said anything, but her words were kind of sweet. Gracie. Clouds. Blue.
On that last day, Uncle Stephen and I lugged the big reclining chair out under the old maple tree in the side yard, and Dad carried Audrey outside.
We covered her with blankets, and Gracie snuggled next to her.
Beck and Jasmine and Micah had been staying at the farm for days, and we all sat around her.
Uncle Stephen was on the recliner with her, his arm around her, talking softly to her the whole time.
Dad and I held on to each other, because I was, like, racked with sobs.
Everyone was a mess. It was horrible and, like, agonizing, and also low-key beautiful.
No, full-on beautiful. I mean, we should all get to die like that, right?
In the sunshine with your dog and everyone you love the most?
I’m glad she made it till spring on the farm.
She loved this place so much. I don’t know if she took the pills or not, but it doesn’t matter.
That letter she wrote to me? Where she said she wanted to leave while she was still herself?
She totally did. Because the thing that made her Audrey never went away, even on her worst days.
And that thing was us. Her love for us, specifically.
From her parents and Uncle Stephen and the Core Four to Dad and especially me, she was basically made out of love. That sounds so cringe, but it’s true.
She got to go on a day when the wrens were chattering and a gazillion daffodils nodded in the breeze and the clouds were creamy and massive against the blue sky.
Her last word was lucky.
Her ashes are buried where the field meets the woods, just past the creek. When Gracie died a few months later, we put her ashes there, too. It’s nice to think of them together, listening to the gurgling water, looking at the farm, keeping an eye on things. On us.
I miss her a lot. I wasted a lot of time, shoving all that love away, and I feel like shit about it, but that’s what therapy is for, right? In the end, Audrey and I got it right. At least there’s that.
Tomorrow, I leave for college, and I’ll be thinking of her on the long drive to Savannah.
Because yep, I’m going to Audrey’s alma mater.
Mee-maw and Papa are over the moon. They think I picked a Georgia college to be closer to them, but I think it’s because I want to get to know Audrey.
The person she was before she met my dad and me.
Same thing with my mother. I like to think that she and Audrey are friends in heaven or wherever you go.
I’ll be on their old stomping grounds, getting to know them both, I guess. My two moms.
“Me swing, too.” It’s an order, not a request.
“Hey, kiddo,” I say. “Can you add a please to that?” Oh my God, I sound basically like every adult who ever irritated me.
I drop the request and pull her onto my lap and kiss her tangled, frizzy curls.
Our hair is basically the same, even though Audrey Katherine Wentworth is biracial and not related to me in, like, any biological way.
But Stephen is my uncle, Beck is now my aunt and I’m little Audrey’s godmother.
Family is so not about blood. Mee-maw is a hundred percent wrong about that.
Oh, and in addition to being a godmother, I’m also gonna be a maid of honor.
Dad’s marrying Ms. Francesco next June, so I guess I’ll have to really work on calling her Toni.
I made her swear she’d live till past eighty.
Like, I’ve been traumatized enough, okay?
Dad’s gonna move in with her after the wedding, and then Bitter Creek Farm becomes Stephen’s.
“Mathilda, have you seen—oh, thank God,” Uncle Stephen says, running up to the swings. “This child is aging me.”
“Yeah. You look super tired and haggard,” I say.
“Thanks, punk.”
“Attila, swing me!” Audrey orders. I obey like the faithful serf I am where this kid is concerned, swinging gently, my arm around her little tummy.
“Don’t go too high, Attila.” Stephen is, like, way too amused at how the kid says my name. He says it suits me.
He sits down on the other swing. “You ready for tomorrow?”
“I guess so.”
“It’ll be weird at first, then great. Don’t worry about your grades. Just find what you love and do that.”
That’s what Audrey did in Savannah. She found me and then made a life based around our dysfunctional little family.
She got me this far. “Sounds like a plan,” I say.
Super nice that Stephen doesn’t, like, lecture me about not drinking and doing drugs or picking a major that will get me a job.
Maybe he knows I can take care of myself.
I can hear the noise from the picnic guests, and the smell of meat floats back to us. Dad says that Yankees have no idea how to cook pork, but lucky for them, he’s willing to teach us. Teach them. Whatever. I’m a hybrid. “I should get back, since I’m the guest of honor and all,” I say.
“I just want to tell you something, kiddo,” Uncle Stephen says. “This place will always be your home. Audrey wouldn’t have it be any other way, and neither would I.”
I look at his kind face and smile. “Thanks, Uncle Stephen. I know.”
Then I scooch off the swing, still holding Audrey.
My uncle slings his arm around my shoulders, and we walk back to the party.
He’s right. This is my home, where I grew up, where I learned how to be a decent person.
I love it here, and even though I’m excited to go to college, it’s good to know I can always come back.
Little Audrey tightens her legs around my waist. “Be horse, Attila! Race Daddy!” So Uncle Stephen and I break into a run, laughing and whinnying as we go.
I hope Audrey can hear us. I think she can.