The Square Root of Summer(31)

“No,” I say, too sharply. “He, we didn’t…” Deep breath. “There was a cremation.”

We shuffle along the path around the church in silence, leaving yew needle footprints behind. We pass Mum’s grave. It’s never not a shock, seeing the date covered in moss: my birthday. Her death. Carved in stone is the stark reality: that we only ever had a few hours together, before a blood clot, her brain, a collapse. And nothing anyone could do. Thomas leans down and scoops up a pebble in one fluid movement, placing it on top of the stone, keeps walking.

Another ritual. A new one. I like him.

“It’s nice that you have these,” Thomas says, gesturing with the diaries. “Like he’s still around. An idea I’m far more comfortable with now I know you painted The Wurst.”

I laugh. Sometimes it’s so easy to. Other times, it feels like I’m going to implode. And it can be totally at random, when I’m doing something irrelevant—showering. Eating a garlic pickle. Sharpening a pencil and suddenly, I’ll want to cry. I don’t get it. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. That’s what the books promised. What I’ve got instead is an uncertainty principle—I never know where my emotions are going to end up.

“I wish Mr. Tuttle had left diaries when he died.” Thomas elbows me.

I laugh, again. “Mr. Tuttle finally died? I thought he was everlasting.”

“He was actually six hamsters. My dad vetoed the endless resurrection last year. I think he was worried he’d get custody.”

We’ve reached the gate. Thomas turns around so quickly it makes me wobble. I end up standing way too close to him. But even though we’re inches apart, he’s in the blazing sunshine, and I’m in the shade.

“G. I wanted to say—back then. I haven’t told you, I really am sorry. About Grey.”

And he hugs me. At first, I don’t know what to do with my arms. It’s the first time someone’s hugged me since Oma and Opa, at Christmas. I stand there, made out of elbows, while he bear-tackles me. But after a moment, I wrap myself around him. It’s a hug like warm cinnamon cake, and I sink into it.

And as I do, I sense that something deep inside me—something I didn’t even know existed anymore, after Jason—has woken up.





Saturday 26 July

[Minus three hundred and twenty eight]

A week later, it starts to rain.

It’s biblical, thrumming on the roof at the Book Barn, sending the shelves shaking. Exactly like the day Thomas left. Midmorning, I climb up to the attic, where Papa is a sprite on a camping stool, tapping his red sneakers to the radio and deliberately misalphabetizing poetry. Maintaining his shrine to Grey. He and Ned are in cahoots.

He waves a copy of The Waste Land at me.

“Hallo. No customers?”

“I turned the sign off,” I tell him, drifting over to the skylight. The rain is horizontal, not tourist-browsing weather or even determined-to-buy-an-obscure-first-edition weather. When I peer outside, the whole world is bruised. Across the fens, the sea shows up in frosted waves. It’s 11 a.m., but it looks midnight—all the lamps are on inside. Tucked inside the heart of the bookshop, light in the darkness, is like being on a spaceship.

And I want to take off. The last time I was here was with Grey, in a wormhole.

I still have no concrete clue about what’s happening. I thought I was clear on the wormholes—they’re just high-definition memories—but then I came back from one with the photo of Mum.

There’s this principle called Occam’s razor that says when you have lots of different theories and no facts, the simplest explanation—which requires the fewest leaps of faith to believe—is right. And the simplest explanation for all this is 1) I was reading a diary and the picture was tucked in the pages. Which means 2) I’m making the wormholes up, mad-crazy with grief.

Is that it? I’m nuts?

It’s not a thought I want to pursue. Even if it’s all inside my head, even if I’m making it all up—I want it to be real. Every vortex I fall into, I kiss Jason. I see Grey. I find me.

“You think should I shelve Ted and Sylvia together?” Papa asks.

“If you want Sof to organize a protest,” I say, turning away from the window.

“It’s romantic, nein?” He lines them up next to each other on the shelf, making a note on his list, then looks at me. “Like you and Thomas coming back. You know, I was a bit older than you when I met your mami?”

I blink at him in astonishment.

“You know there’s a book for you on the desk?” he adds. “I think it’s maybe from Grey.”

“Oh.” I linger in the doorway, waiting for him to elaborate. Talk more about Mami, about Grey. When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “I’m meeting a friend for lunch at the café. Want me to bring you back a sandwich?”

“Ja.” He half waves me off. I bet he won’t look up for hours—if I don’t put a sandwich in front of him, he won’t remember to eat. I grieve in wormholes. He grieves inside his head—always has. Would things be different if Mum were alive? Ned and I might not have even grown up here, with Grey.

Back downstairs, I rummage through the desk chaos and unearth a biography of Cecilia Payne-Gaposchki, the PhD student who discovered what the universe was made of. The sun, the stars, everything—it’s all hydrogen.