I Liked My Life(49)

“Honestly though,” I stall, “things were different before the accident.”

“I know.” He squeezes my knee to show that doesn’t matter.

“I’m a totally different person now.” Tears slide down my cheeks. “I think about everything more, you know? I question if I’m spending my time in, like, a meaningful way. No one really gets me right now.”

“Do you think I get you?”

“Pfft. I don’t know. I think you want to. I think you’re the only one in our group who cares anymore.”

“That’s not fair. Everyone cares.”

“No they—”

He puts a hand up. “In April, we didn’t know how to respond. I admit that. But I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. A lot of time. I never should’ve dragged you to Lindsey’s. Kara told me to skip it and she was right. That was shitty.”

“Kara told you to skip it because she suddenly hates me. It’s like my mom’s death ruined her life.”

“Forget Kara. She’s been a freak to everyone, not just you. But the rest of us care. We just don’t know how to show it.”

I understand why John would fight to keep me. We’re finally seniors. The bridge by the railroad track reads Class of 2016 for the next twelve months. He doesn’t know how to separate me from his excitement. We lost our virginity together. We’ve been going out almost two years, the longest of any couple in our grade. People joke that we’re the school mascot. I have to tell him I’m leaving. Telling him will end it for good.

“I’m going to Exeter in September,” I whisper. “As a boarder.”

He pulls his hand away, a relief. “Why?”

“You know why.”

“I mean why didn’t you tell me? How long have you known?”

“I dunno. Since May, I guess.”

“So you knew before the accident, before I left?” I nod. He glares at me. “What the hell, Eve?”

The passion in his voice stuns me. How can two people view the same relationship so differently? “I-I guess I assumed no one would give a shit by the time I left anyway and-and I didn’t want to get into a whole big conversation.”

He throws both hands in the air. “What else can I possibly do to prove I love you?”

I turn the radio on instead of answering. Solid-gold oldies fill the car, making me think of my mom. If she were here she’d say, Listen to this music. No wonder everyone was happy in the fifties.

“How far away is Exeter?” he asks.

“A little over an hour.”

“That’s not too bad. You’ll be back for weekends?”

“I have classes Saturday morning, but I’ll be back after that unless there’s a game or something.”

He smirks. “Saturday classes? Sounds like an awesome time.” I don’t have a comeback, so he keeps talking. “Whatever. Weekends are what really matter, right?” His voice is desperate, like a wannabe’s, which he’s not.

It’s tempting to join the world of the living with someone other than my father. I don’t know what I’m going to say until I say it: “Wanna see a movie tonight?”

“Can’t. My parents are having some lame welcome-home-even-though-we’re-the-ones-who-sent-you-away-in-the-first-place dinner. Tomorrow?”

“I’m going to a funeral.”

His eyes bug out, but I wave him off. “My tutor’s mom. I never even met the lady. How about Thursday?”

“Great, but you’ll have to pick me up. I can’t drive till I’m nineteen.” He winks to show there’s no hard feelings, then leans in for a kiss good-bye. I turn so he’ll catch my cheek. He settles for it.

I’m not worth his forgiveness, but he hasn’t figured that out yet.

Brady

It’s tough to build on being a Republican businessman allergic to penicillin, so running is really my only option to Dr. White’s challenge of fostering a passion.

I’m training for the Boston Marathon next spring. To qualify, I need a time of less than three hours and twenty minutes at the race in Quebec. That’s under an eight-minute mile for twenty-six consecutive miles. After a week and a half of training I ran a nine-minute mile for ten miles, so I have work to do. I’ve read several articles that say the type of training I need, in the five weeks I have to do it, can’t be done. My confidence could use an impossible accomplishment right about now.

People often run in someone’s memory or to promote a cause. I’ve been envisioning myself crossing the finish line with the tagline RUNNING FOR SUICIDE. Maddy laughs with me on that one. The sound is unmistakable, knocking against my skull, like she’s running next to me. Keeping my eyes straight ahead, I indulge the fantasy that we’re in this together, that after Quebec and Boston we’ll travel the world running marathons.

Every day, about three miles in, I pass Wellesley College. I consider it penance. For two years I believed Maddy volunteered here to pass time and thrived, when really she came for fulfillment and failed. Usually I nod my head to pay respect, but today I veer off the sidewalk toward the library as though someone called my name. It’s too late to stop Maddy, but I can stand in her final spot and beg her memory’s forgiveness. How did I let work swallow me whole? If only I had been there, in that moment, to yell, “THIS CHOICE IS THE ONLY THING HAPPENING THAT IS PERMANENT. I CAN CHANGE.”