A Million Miles Away(62)

Kelsey tried to step around her mother, but she held tight to her shoulders. “How was I supposed to tell you?”

“I need to…” Peter put his hand to his forehead, trying to find an exit. “It will be best for everyone if I leave, I think.”

“Don’t leave!” Kelsey was practically screaming. Her words left her before she thought them, quick and sloppy. “It’s still me.… No matter what you called me… I’m still the person you talked to and wrote to.… I love you in every real way.… I tried to stop but I couldn’t.… I…”

Her mother put her mouth close to Kelsey’s ear. “It’s time to be quiet now. Let him be.”

The din of her own words collapsed on her. For not all flesh is the same, but there is one kind for humans.… She felt a deep pain, but had no idea where it was coming from.

The funeral passage, haunting her, now engraved in Kelsey’s eyes:

Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?

Peter sidestepped the table, the couch, taking the widest route around her that he could, kicking balloons out of the way.

With a creak and a click of the door, he was gone.





Dear Michelle,



My flashlight ran out of power last night because I was reading your letter over and over. I hadn’t planned on it, but once I read it, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to start at the beginning again. You make me laugh too loud late at night. You get me in trouble.

I’ve heard it said that comedians are the saddest people, that they resort to humor because their world is so dark and absurd it doesn’t make sense, that you have to be in deep pain to be funny, something like that. They say that about artists, too, for that matter. Hell, Vincent van Gogh cut off his own ear. What I’m saying is, you are both funny and an artist, and I hope that sadness is not the case with you.

But I would also understand if it was. I’ve always had a bit of the blues myself, even before I decided that a free college education would be worth nine months in this hellhole. I hate it when older people say that we have nothing to be sad about, that we’re young and we couldn’t possibly know real sadness. Or maybe no one has said that to you. But I bet they have. Anyway, if I’ve learned anything here, it would be from the children who hang out in burnt-out buildings by themselves, with no one to talk to but a dog and a beat-up soccer ball. They have lost their moms and dads and brothers and sisters, and who would say they don’t know real sadness? Sadness isn’t measured in years. Feelings, I don’t think, can be measured in anything. We are just bodies guessing about other bodies. That’s why songs and paintings and poems exist. They’re the best guesses.

I told you once that the thought of you somewhere happy is what keeps me going, but the thought of you somewhere sad is okay, too. I mean, I don’t want you to be sad, and if you aren’t that’s good, but it’s just you, as you are, that I think about. However you are.

Are you sad?

You don’t have to tell me. But just like you are there somewhere for me, I am here somewhere for you. If you are sad, I want to make you happy. If you are happy, I want to make you happier. Pen is running out of ink. Must get new pen.

Yours,

Peter





CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX


A knock on her door woke Kelsey from a dreamless sleep. It was dark outside, but her lights were still on. She had no idea how long she’d been out, but the partygoers were gone. One of Peter’s old letters lay next to her on the bed.

Her mother entered, now changed out of her dress clothes into sweatpants, glasses on the tip of her nose.

“All right, get up,” her mother said.

“Thanks, Mom, but I really don’t feel like talking right now,” Kelsey said, burying herself deeper in her pillows.

“Sit up,” her mother said.

“What time is it?” Kelsey asked.

“It’s time for you to be held accountable for your actions. Sit up.”

Her mother’s tone made Kelsey feel like she was seven years old again, and she hated it, but she did as she was told.

“Put on a sweater.”

She followed her mother to the front door without a word. The night air smelled as if it had just rained and they walked toward the river to the sound of the breeze. Yesterday’s events were still with her. Michelle’s death was, at least, out of her hands. It was accidental, a freak event.

The shame of losing Peter, of losing him because of her lies, seemed more like an endless sickness no one could cure. She would never forget what she’d done to him.

When they stepped aside for a jogger, Kelsey realized it must almost be dawn.

“I didn’t sleep last night,” her mother said beside her.

“Why?” Kelsey asked. Her throat felt itchy from crying.

Her mother put her hands in her sweatshirt pockets as she walked, and sighed. “I don’t know whether to call this boy’s mother or take you to a psychiatrist or what.”

Kelsey stopped in her tracks. “What? No.”

She put up her hands. “You obviously aren’t handling your sister’s death well—”

“None of us are handling Mitch’s death well!” Her voice was raised. Her fists were clenched. It was all coming out now. The rage, the hurt, the sensation of yelling at her mother from the bottom of a well to HELP ME UP, GODDAMNIT. “You criticize me all the time! You fill my house with strangers that you talk to more than me!”